


An Incomplete Piece

by CharlotteCordelier



Series: Asclepius [4]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, BAMF Felicity Smoak, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Inaccuracies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-08
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-02-12 01:33:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 76,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12948444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharlotteCordelier/pseuds/CharlotteCordelier
Summary: AU Part 3: The League is in town; Oliver is fertummelt; Palmer is a nudnik; and all Felicity really wants is to finish her last year of residency. Fercockt, is what it is.





	1. Chapter 1

_ All is interrelated. Heaven and earth, air and water. All are but one thing; not four, not two and not three, but one. Where they are not together, there is only an incomplete piece. _

-Paracelsus

 

**Sterling, 2014**

“What’s that?” Oliver nodded towards her reusable grocery bag.

“A toaster oven,” she said, pulling out the recently scoured specimen. “Roy rescued it. I’m working on a mini-fridge, too. You know, so you don’t have to live full time off protein bars and boiled eggs.”

“I like boiled eggs.”

“No one likes boiled eggs, Oliver. We just eat them for the protein because they’re cheap and we’re poor.”

“I let you buy me a bed.”

“It’s from IKEA and you were sleeping on the floor. I was worried you were going to start growing mold. Don’t worry. I’m not going out of my way here. I just don’t want you to die of scurvy. Or constipation.”

She was mercifully interrupted by the arrival of a text from Thea.

“Where is she now?”

“The Amalfi coast. I keep telling her to send pictures.”

“I’m going to do a patrol,” Roy said tightly. “Clear my head.”

“Hey. You did really good tonight.”

“I’m going to head out, too. I’ve got swing shift tonight, and it’s a full moon, so we’re looking at a lot of babies and batshit.”

“But we’re still on for tomorrow night?”

“Absolutely. Bring me the name of your challenger and I’ll give you what you need to destroy him.”   
  


* * *

 

“Hey! Hey!” He jogged to catch her up behind the foundry. “How was work?”

“It was awesome,” Felicity said grinning. “We had a frequent flyer come in, totally out of his gourd on meth, and when one of the interns turns his back, he disappears. Poof. So the nurses page me because, believe it or not, I have the reputation of handling crazy well. Then I convince everybody in the entire ER to shush. I shush the whole department. And that’s how we found him. An orderly heard him crawling above the drop ceiling.”

“And he came down?”

“Yeah, five minutes later, when the tiles gave way and he dropped onto a gurney in the hallway and broke his leg.”

“Ouch.”

“Oh, he didn’t feel any of it. I mean he will, soon, while he detoxes. In a cast. The moral of the story is, don’t do drugs. Although I feel like that’s the moral of most of my stories. That, and we should really have single payer healthcare. So. Did you get me that name?”

“Yeah, Raymond Palmer.”

Felicity stopped in her tracks.

“What?”

“I can’t help you destroy him.”

“Do you know him?”

“Not personally. But I can’t be a part of bringing him down.”

“Felicity--”

“Look, I don’t want to talk about it. I’m not ready to talk about it. I’m not going to talk about it.”

“Okay,” he said in a tone that meant it wasn’t really the end of the conversation. 

“I don’t think you need to destroy him to beat him anyway. You’re not qualified, but you actually care about your products and your employees, which is more than you can say for most CEOs. You give a shit, Oliver, and that’s what you need to get across to them.”

“Felicity. Would you like to go out to dinner with me?”

“Sure. There’s that new Greek place around the corner. One of the night nurses was heating up leftover spanakopita and it smelled amazing.”

“No, I meant. Not dinner. Out, to dinner.” He smiled--bashfully?

“Usually I’m the one talking in sentence fragments.” She waited for him to let her down easy.   _ Steady on, girl. Steady. _ “Is this you asking me out on a date?”

“Su--I mean, the implication being with dinner that you…” He laughed, broke eye contact. Oliver Queen was flustered. “Would you like to go out to dinner with me?”

“Yes.”  _ Steady. The fuck. On. _

 

* * *

 

“I can’t talk right now,” Felicity whispered, shrugging a lock of hair over her Bluetooth. “I’m at work.”

“Busy?” Oliver asked.

She looked down at her favorite frequent flyer, currently cuffed to the gurney. Magda was back and, as the kids say, shwasted on Old Fashioneds. She’d been picked up on a D&D and brought into the ER because the cops didn’t want her drying out at the precinct. Because when Magda drank, she sang. And she sang exclusively  _ Les Miserables _ . 

“At the end of the day you’re another day colder,” went Magda. “And the shirt on your back doesn’t keep out the chill.”

“Is that Les Mis?” Roy asked.

“How do you even know what Les Mis is?” She couldn’t help asking.

“And the plague is coming on fast, ready to kill!”

“Smoak!” her attending yelled. “Get her in a room! At least and until ‘Master of the House.’”

“Yep,” Felicity said, leaning hard into the gurney. “Come on, Magda.”

“One day nearer to dying!”

“I can hear the snickers,” she said darkly into the comm, “and I am making note of the snickerers.”

When Felicity had Magda in a small exam room, she pulled her tablet from the custom-sewn pocket inside her lab coat and went to work. Backdoor into the city’s databases, facial recognition...

“There’s a reckoning still to be reckoned! And there’s gonna be hell to paaaaaay, at the end of the day!”

“Magda! Pianissimo!”

“Do you like Italian?”

“No, I was talking to Magda.”

“For tonight. You like Italian, right? Everyone likes Italian.”

“As long as you don’t take me someplace where I have to keep track of which fork I’m using, we’ll be fine.”

“She means fancy,” Roy put in.

“Yes, thank you.” Felicity rolled her eyes. “I think your guy’s in the sewer? His phone is at Grand & Ames, but he’s not on the street. I’ve texted the Detective, too. He’s en route.”

“I might have known the bitch could bite! I might have known the cat had claws! I might have guessed your little secret!”

“Pianissimo! Fuck my life. I gotta go.”

“Smoak!” the attending yelled, as soon as she was out of the room.

“I tried! She’s not taking direction tonight!”

“No, you’ve got a call.”

Confused, Felicity checked her beeper and her cell. The attending tilted his head, regarding her the way you would a slightly inebriated puppy. Adorable, but concerning. He waggled the landline in his hand.

“Earth to Smoak. It’s on the fourth floor.”

“No, that’s labor and delivery. Oh. Oh! I have to...this is my...”

“Residents,” he muttered as she bolted past.

 

* * *

 

“Hey,” Felicity poked her head around the corner. “Can I come in?”

“No,” Diggle said.

“Of course,” Lyla said.

Felicity entered, knowing full well which of the two she was more afraid of .

“You’re not decent!” he protested.

“Of course I’m not decent! I’m enormous!” Lyla was still changing out of one of those awful paper gowns and back into what passed for maternity wear at forty-one weeks. Basically, a tent.

“Braxton Hicks?” Felicity guessed.

“I’m an idiot. I’m a huge, rotund, massive, spherical, idiot. John, button the back of my thing.”

John looked desperately at Felicity. The back of Lyla’s maternity dress had thrown in the towel, given up the ghost, folded like a cheap suit. It wasn’t going to button for love or money. And John hadn’t told her?

“Lyla,” Felicity said, “you’re too pregnant for this dress.”

“Son of a bitch!” Lyla said. “I cut my teeth in signals intelligence, Johnny, and you think you can lie to me about being too big for my own clothes!”

“Johnny?”

“Get out of here, Diggle said. “Thanks for dropping by. But you have that thing.”

“That thing?” Lyla narrowed her eyes at Felicity’s hair, which was down, and her contacts, which were in. “You have a date.”

“They are not kidding about those mom super powers,” Felicity said. “Yeah, so...I have to go. Try spicy food. Or sex. But the theory is it has to be a really good orgasm to bring on contractions. I'll just...leave you with that.”

She changed in the same locker room she changed in every shift. But this time, she actually cared what she looked like when she left. Long sleeve black crop top, check. High-waisted jeans that made her ass look stellar, check. Leopard print flats, check. Good mascara, check. A red lip, check. A long necklace to remind everyone that yes she did have boobs after all, check. 

“Oh shit,” said Intern B from the door. “Dr. Smoak’s a lady.”

“This isn’t your locker room, you mouth-breather!”

“Yeah, but there was a rumor going around that you were--”

“Does your malpractice insurance cover sexual harassment?”

Intern B scrammed. Was it too much? She examined herself in the mirror above the sink. It felt like too much, but she also hadn’t worn grown up clothes since...since the Queen Christmas party when Oliver had bribed her with that dress. Right. This was a date with Oliver Queen. It wasn’t too much. It might not be enough. She leaned in to add one more coat of mascara.

 

* * *

 

She got to the place first. It was a true hole-in-the-wall Chinese restaurant on the edge of the Glades. All the signage was in Chinese, and there were a profusion of red paper lanterns strung in the window. Looking around, she didn’t see a single white face other than hers. It had to be phenomenal food, if only she knew what she was eating.

“Hi,” she said to the hostess. “I’m waiting for my friend. My date. I have a date. I’m waiting for him. He’ll be here, I’m sure.”

The hostess, a woman of a certain age with flawless makeup and a sharp black dress, was not impressed by this scattered young blonde. She led Felicity to a small, semi-circular booth while Felicity tried not to dig herself in any deeper by disclosing any other details, like how long it had been since she’d had sex. (Approximately forever and a day.)

“You want a drink?” The hostess asked.

“Oh, yes. Yes. Um. Can I have a Singapore Sling?”

“Double?”

“You read my mind.”

“Don’t worry,” the hostess said. “I’ll bring a straw. Your lipstick is perfect.”

It turned out that several tots of gin on an empty stomach had a very soothing effect. Felicity was just deciding that she could pretend to be the best version of herself, a version that was somehow chill enough and chic enough to be on a date with Oliver Queen when the man himself entered the restaurant and approached the hostess. He was wearing perfectly broken-in jeans, an untucked black collared shirt, and a smile. No one was chill enough or chic enough for this. He aimed the smile at Felicity and the hostess’s eyes widened with appreciation as she took his drink order.

“Hi,” he said, and he slid into the booth beside her.

“Hi.” She tucked a stray hair behind her ear, and then he reached out and squeezed her hand.

“Hi.” He was still holding her hand.

There was a solid thirty seconds of silence, where they just looked at each other. Felicity felt her face growing hot. This was the nightmare. Voicelessness.

“Do you speak Chinese?” she finally got out. “Because I don’t think they have an English menu. And I don’t want to be one of those people that orders fried rice everywhere they go just because they know what it’s going to taste like. But I don’t think I’m ready for, like, live seafood or puffer fish. That’s sushi. I know that’s sushi. I’m not mixing up my countries, I promise. I placed third in a geography bee one time.”

“Nervous?” he asked, grinning.

“Mmmhmm.”

“Line forms behind me. And, for the record, yes, I do speak enough Chinese to order here.”

“Oh good. I’ll have anything but pork or peanuts.”

“You want me to order for you?”

“Um. Was that too...forward? I mean, I order for you all the time. I order you around, too. In a crime-fighting way.”

“Felicity,” he said. “What do we have to be nervous about?”

“I don’t know. I feel like we’ve covered all the first date material. And the second date material. And so on. And I’ve already seen you shirtless. And naked a couple times... Multiple times. But shirtless. You know. All the time.”

“Thank you,” he said, as their hostess sat down a neat scotch and winked at Felicity.

“There are still some things you don’t know about me,” he said.

“Ditto. You first.”

“Well, I speak Chinese because I learned it. Five years ago.”

“So...not on the island?”

“No. Hong Kong. And I have been thinking a lot recently about my time there. The choices that I had to make.” He looked seriously discomfited for a moment. “I’m sorry. I’m just a little out of my element. The entire time that I was gone, I could never completely trust someone. And when that goes on for so long, you stop seeing people as people. You see threats, or targets. And when I decided to come home, I just didn’t know how to turn that part of me off. And then, I tried to save you from a mugging. And there was just something about you”

“I try to forget about that.” Felicity covered her eyes with her hand. “I was so pissed at you.”

“You used the phrase ‘pretend hero bullshit.’”

“No,” she groaned, not moving her hand. “I need more gin for this.”

“And then I met you again, as me.”

“And I immediately hit you up for money. Seriously, where is our waitress?”

“You asked if I was a dancer from the Cock Pit and then you fell backwards in your chair.”

She peeked out from between her fingers, unsure if she was being mocked. His smile was buoyant and generous. Against her better judgment, she was smiling back. 

“Do you remember when I told you that because of the life we lead, I didn’t think that I could be with someone that I could really care about?”

“Yeah. I think I’m taking that weekend to my grave.”

“So maybe I was wrong.”

“Oh.” Inhale, exhale. “Well, there’s something you don’t know about me, either,” Felicity said.

“What’s that?”

“That so-called mugging wasn’t actually the first time we met,” she said. 

He looked at her, delightfully confused, and then suddenly turned back to the plate glass window, full of lanterns. Felicity, somewhat muddled by the gin, didn’t recognize what was happening until after she was pulled sideways, under the round table, into the center of the booth, Oliver’s body on top of hers. And then the perfect restaurant exploded.

She didn’t black out, there was just a small break in between the intact restaurant and the flaming aftermath. Oliver’s hands were on her shoulders and she turned towards him. His face was dirty and he was talking to her, but she couldn’t hear him. Instead, there was a combination of ringing and silence. The booth was gone. He pulled her to a more or less seated position and she propped herself up with one arm and gave him a thumbs up with the other. But when he helped her to her feet, she felt the floor drop out from underneath her. She sucked air and grabbed for him reflexively, scrabbling fingernails against the expensive material of his shirt. He gripped her hard by the upper arms and held her away slightly, so she could see his face.

_ You’re safe, _ he mouthed.  _ You’re safe. I’m here _ .

A realization dawned on her then, and she touched the lobe of her right ear gently with her middle finger. It came away sticky with blood and something more clear.  _ Shit _ . She pointed towards her ear and Oliver nodded. Then she waggled her hand, hopefully indicated poor balance. He offered a shoulder and she tried to walk, but it happened again and she pitched forward, or stood perfectly still, or possibly both. He didn’t hesitate, but picked her up and headed for the exit.

Felicity tried closing both her eyes, then opening them, then one eye at a time. Nothing helped. Finally, she pressed her left ear into Oliver’s chest. She could hear the rustling of his shirt below the ringing. That was left.  _ Oliver is left. Oliver is left _ . She repeated it over and over until they were at the lair, down the stairs, and Oliver had sat her gently on one of the steel work tables. She clung to the edges and fought the urge to faceplant on it. Digg and Roy appeared in front of her.

“It’s okay,” she said in what she knew was probably a comically loud voice. “It’s just my eardrum. My balance is fucked. Someone check him over. I said, someone check him over. I know you can hear me, Johnny.”

That earned her a glare, but Diggle did give Oliver a quick once-over, while Oliver stood peevishly like he was waiting for an airport pat down. Felicity managed to catch his eye and smile, but that only made him frown. They were saying things she couldn’t hear, and then Roy reappeared with a duffel that she recognized.

More talking. John and Oliver. She squinted but, no, that did not in fact magically teach her to read lips. Still, she’d have bet her bottom dollar Oliver was performing his favorite sleight of guilt bullshit, and you didn’t have to be a genius to know where that was headed. Then he picked up his phone and made a call, turning his back to her entirely.

 

* * *

 

“Felicity, call an ambulance!”

It was no way to end a mission, calling an ambulance. At least she was clean, changed into Team Arrow sweats and some wool socks of Digg’s that she was definitely never giving back to him. The tinnitus had faded enough to use her headset in her left ear and the hearing was returning to her right ear, although somewhat garbled. Still, she preferred to maneuver so that Oliver was in her light of sight before she asked.

“Are you OK? That was a pretty shady cocktail Werner hit you with.”

“How’s Detective Lance’s condition?”

“Stable. I broke some laws and impersonated his family physician. He’s not great, but it doesn’t sound like he’s done any further damage.”

“How are you?”

“Eardrums heal.” She paused, but he didn’t speak again. “Could I get some blood? I’d like to run a tox screen, if you don’t mind.” She took the blood sample and drifted away, back to her small lab. There was no real rush. Oliver looked spooked, but not truly fucked up, as he had in previous encounters with the drug. 

“I know we need to talk.”

“We can wait,” she said quickly, immediately branding herself a coward. “After we catch this guy.”

“Maybe I should reschedule the board meeting?”

“It’s in an hour, Oliver. I think you’re just going to have to get it over with.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to come with me?”

“I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but nothing good has ever come from my visiting that floor.”

“Point taken.”

 

* * *

 

When Felicity heard the news, she was glad she hadn’t been there. She couldn’t have been happy for Ray, which would have been depressing. And she would have been crushed for Oliver, in front of other people, which would be even worse. It was her day off, so when she’d woken up without her alarm, she got dressed and went down to the lair. She did not put on date clothes of any kind. She put on her usual jeans and Mizuno sneakers and t-shirt (this one read VALAR MORGHULIS: YES ALL MEN) and her satin bomber jacket, which had been a splurge and which she loved dearly.

Oliver was already there, working on some prototype arrow or other. So he was trying to find new ways to disable unsubs, just short of killing them, which didn’t speak highly of his current mental state. He looked calm enough. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, taking a seat at her lab bench, but turned to face him. “I really thought you were going to pull it off.”

“So did I, but maybe the company’s better off with Dr. Palmer.”

Oh good. Fatalist Oliver. This always went well.

“I couldn’t make time for QC last year, and trying to get the company back now, it’s selfish. That’s something the old me would have done. And if the past twelve hours have reminded me of anything, it’s that two years ago, I made the decision to put Oliver Queen aside and be the Arrow. And that’s not a decision I get to unmake.”

“Have you ever heard of a false dichotomy? You know, when you think there are only two mutually exclusive choices, but there’s clearly a third?”

“Look what happened last night, Felicity.”

“I knew I wasn’t sitting down next to...Bob from Accounting. I don’t want to sit next to Bob from Accounting. I want to sit next to you. And, sure, people fire guns and arrows and apparently rocket launchers at you sometimes. I still wanted to sit next to you.”

“When Werner hit me with the vertigo dart, he told me that his formula, it shows us our worst fear. I saw myself.”

“Which you? I mean...was it Ollie? Were you wearing your hood? Or your jeans?”

“My suit.”

“Hmm.” She kept her face very blank. Oliver was a very, very bright man. But five years of exile and torture and whatever else did not necessarily build a capacity for introspection. Tactical awareness, outstanding. Self-awareness, t.b.d. She couldn’t help wondering if he’d noticed that he’d seen business!Oliver as his worst fear, and then promptly lost the company. And immediately made peace with it.

Felicity might have even gone so far as to verbalize the thought, but then there was a bomb in Rockets Arena and she had to talk Roy through several hair-raising minutes of explosives management. She really needed to learn more about bombs, but the truth was that she was afraid to ask, in case she ended up on a watchlist. If she wasn’t already on the watchlists.

No sooner had that one been put to bed, when the next one went off. Felicity was paged.

“Great work with the team, bomb. Bomb, team. Sorry. Lyla’s having the baby. See you there.”

Felicity biked to the hospital, hardly feeling the hills, and then jogged up the stairs to Labor and Delivery.

“Hey,” said Ray Palmer, appearing out of nowhere as she exited onto the floor, making her jump. He looked just like he did in his photos. Tall, dark, and yawn. Besides, she didn’t like being startled.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, brushing by him.

“I found out where you worked and then I charmed one of the front desk volunteers into letting me past security.”

“Uh-huh.” Felicity crossed her arms over her chest. She knew which volunteer and it was time for that lazy slag to find another gig. He looked uncomfortable. “You should go.”

“Look, she always talked about--”

“We’re not talking about her right now. Did you seriously come to my work to talk about her?”

“Doctor Smoak,” said Kesha, one of her favorite RNs. “We’re ordering dinner. Do you want something?”

“Tuna melt, please,” Felicity answered.

“Tuna melt. Got it.” Kesha gave Roy an epic side-eye as she passed, headed towards the phone at the nurses’ station.

“We don’t have to talk about-- Listen, I came to offer you a job.”

“I have a job. Here. Where you are. Uninvited.”

“Is this about the company? Because I didn’t realize that--"

“Listen to my words. I don’t want a job. I don’t want anything from you. And I don’t want you here.”

“I only wanted--“ Ray was very suddenly moving backwards, two security guards lifting him up off his feet and bearing him away towards the elevator. “What? Fellas, what’s going on here?”

Felicity waggled her fingers at him.

“Oh, I get it,” he said. “Tuna melt was a code.”

Felicity elevated her middle finger.

“It’s a shame he’s a prick,” Kesha said. “He’s not a bad looking man.”

“So many pricks are.”

“Speaking of which,” Kesha tilted her head towards the bank of elevators.

“Is he back?” Felicity carefully did not look.

“No, it’s Thurston Howell III.” Kesha raised her eyebrows expressively. “Can I make a prick joke right about now?”

Felicity made a face and slipped into Lyla’s room to meet the world’s most adorable baby.

“APGAR score of ten!” Digg announced. “It doesn’t get any higher.”

“Save me,” Lyla said, but she was grinning.

“How was her respiration? Oh, what’s that? Vigorous! It was a vigorous cry!”

“Is he the father or did you just hire him to be your hype man?”

“I think he’s aiming for both. Johnny, dial it back for five minutes and show Felicity you weren’t raised in a barn.”

“Let me see this baby. I want to make sure he isn’t inflating the score,” Felicity said, sitting on the edge of the bed besides Lyla. “Nope, baby looks pretty badass to me.”

“Pretty badass, that’s what she said, folks.”

“He knows you did all the work, right?” Felicity asked quietly.

“Yeah, he had to sit down for the delivery before he fell down. I told him not to watch. But no, he said it couldn’t be worse than combat.”

“They never listen to us,” Felicity said, unable to share Lyla’s smile just then.

“I can come back,” Oliver said from the doorway.

“No, Oliver, come in.”

 

* * *

 

“She’s beautiful,” Felicity said, as they walked out of the hospital room.

“She is. We need to talk.”

“I don’t want to talk.”

“Felicity.”

“I don’t want to say what I have to say. Because then it’ll be over.” Resigned, Felicity opened the door to her stairwell and did a line of sight check. They were alone.

“I’m so sorry. I thought I could be me and the Arrow, but I can’t. Not now. Maybe not ever.”

“You already are, you insufferable…you’ve been both of those things for two years now. But you took one step out of your comfort zone and you got scared.”

“That’s not true.” Oliver pushed his hands into his pockets.

“Look me in the eye and say that. Say you weren’t scared last night.”

“It was a reminder that--”

“Wrong. You got scared, because there was a rocket launcher. But this is our life! Rocket launchers!”

“It’s not about being scared, it’s about being--”

“You did the math,” Felicity stepped right on his words. “On the left side of the equal sign, me and rocket launchers. On the right side, you and rocket launchers. And you did the math, and Felicity and rocket launchers wasn’t worth it. ”

“Don’t ever say you’re not worth it.” Oliver reached for her, for the small of her back or maybe the nap of her neck, but she wasn’t having it. She shifted her weight back onto on heel, knocked his hand aside, and pushed the heel of her palm just far enough into his xiphoid process to arrest his progress and get his attention. 

“Let me break this down for you. When you tap out, you don’t get to kiss me. You don't get to tell me things about myself. You don’t get to hold my hand when we’re alone. You don’t get to ask me about my life. You don’t get to talk to me about your day. Or your family. Or how you wish things were different. You don’t get to apologize and feel better. We just became co-workers.”

Her phone rang, before she could start crying. She was already headed towards the fire door when she saw who was calling. Turning back, Felicity threw the phone at Oliver, who needed both hands to catch it before it hit him between the eyes.

“It’s Barry Allen. He knows who you are. I’m sure he’d love to hear you talk.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I think she’s dead,” Laurel sobbed.
> 
> “Yes,” Felicity said very calmly, imagining a white coat appearing on her shoulders. It was amazing what the white coat did. She approached Laurel and the body, checked for a carotid, radial, and brachial pulse. She didn’t need to, but she did. “She is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a little death-heavy. If non-graphic detail about bodies freaks you out, you might want to keep that scroll function handy.

_ Our patients' lives and identities may be in our hands, yet death always wins. Even if you are perfect, the world isn't. The secret is to know that the deck is stacked, that you will lose, that your hands or judgment will slip, and yet still struggle to win for your patients. _

-Dr. Paul Kalanithi,  _ When Breath Becomes Air _

 

**Starling, 2014**

Because Felicity had left Glades Memorial in a huff, if not a full-blown flounce, she was the first to arrive at the lair after leaving Lyla’s room in the early morning hours. She knew that Oliver and Roy weren’t far behind, but she could not be adult enough to wait for them. She was going to grab her bag, hit the bodega for a bottle of wine, and spend the rest of the evening trying on her non-scrubs clothes for evaluation while playing  _ Soviet Kitsch _ way too loudly. Time to go all the way down the wormhole.

She was still wondering if the red casino dress had survived the quake (it was the kind of thing she would forget under her bed) when she hit the metal stairs and smelled blood. She froze like a rabbit or a deer, mouth open. It was just sometimes when that smell surprised her--

“Felicity?” It was Laurel. Laurel was talking.

“Yes?” Her voice was tremulous as she descended. Laurel was there, in a beautiful camel coat smeared with blood. And Sara Lance’s body was on one of their worktables. Felicity felt its presence like a slap. Which was nothing to how Sara’s sister must feel.

“I think she’s dead,” Laurel sobbed.

“Yes,” Felicity said very calmly, imagining a white coat appearing on her shoulders. It was amazing what the white coat did. She approached Laurel and the body, checked for a carotid, radial, and brachial pulse. She didn’t need to, but she did. “She is.”

“Sara?” Oliver’s voice came from the stairs. 

Felicity turned her back and put her gloves on. Dead people never looked like they did on TV. There was an immediate slackness of muscle, that came with the absence of life. With adults, you could always tell when the animation was gone. Pallor mortis was evident, too, blood no longer reaching the capillaries. Every freckle stood out. Sara’s jaw was slack, her eyes open and unfocused.

“I didn’t know where else to take her.” Laurel admitted.

“What happened?” he asked. 

“I couldn’t...I couldn’t leave her.”

“It was fast,” Felicity said quietly. “It was very fast.” There was trauma, visible trauma from a fall maybe, but it looked peri or post mortem. One of the arrows was in perfect position to transect the abdominal aorta. Wherever Sara had fallen, it was entirely possible she had not been conscious or even alive at impact.

“It’s not fair!” Laurel said.

Felicity couldn’t watch. It was hard when it was strangers in the hospital.  _ Put this feeling into a box. We will open it later and let it go _ . She caught Oliver’s eyes and looked towards the stairs, hoping he understood. He led Laurel upstairs and away from Sara.

“You don’t have to stay,” Felicity said to Roy.

“No, it’s okay. I...I’ll help.” He looked like he might puke.

“Bring me some of our evidence bags. And the camera.” And face away from the corpse on the table for a minute.

Like so many specialties she had decided against, like surgery and psychiatry, pathology was now apparently in her wheelhouse. Using her Leatherman shears, Felicity cut away some of the fabric from the arrows’ shafts so that she could peel away Sara’s jacket without disturbing them. 

“What...what do I take pictures of?”

“Just her torso,” she said. “Not her face.”

Roy, still white, brought a small step stool over and climbed it, taking the pictures from above to document the situation and appearance of the arrows. Looking closer at Sara’s freckled and scarred abdomen, Felicity was sure she was right. The aorta had been damaged beyond any repair. She would have lost consciousness almost at once.

“I’m going to take the arrows out now,” she warned Roy. “I’d feel better if you were sitting down somewhere for this part.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“It’s okay, sit down. Put your head between your knees.”

“She’s so tiny,” he said, dragging the step stool away and sitting down on it heavily. “She was such a badass, I never noticed.”

“I was so jealous of her,” Felicity admitted tonelessly, even as she grasped the arrow near the base to pull. It felt instinctively wrong because of how damaging the removal would have been if Sara were still living. She never would have done it this way, if there were a pulse. Felicity closed her eyes and wrenched. She heard Roy gag. “You don’t have to stay,” she repeated.

“It’s okay, Doc.”

“I can handle this.” These were the facts of her life.

“Yeah, but I still don’t think you should handle it alone.” Roy reached for a trash can and she was again impressed with his peculiar brand of courage. “Why were you jealous?”

“Well, she was a total badass, of course. But it was more like… Her body is covered in scars, Roy. Worse than Oliver. Last year, before you were officially brought on, she told us a little about what happened to her and… I was jealous because she didn’t seem too fucked up to function, you know? She could tend bar and kick ass and still talk to her family. She was still...whole.”

“Not like us, you mean.”

“Not like us.”

Felicity’s phone buzzed. “Shit.” She snapped her gloves off and answered. “I’m so sorry. Karen? I’m late, aren’t I. There’s been a death in the family. No, no, it’s...listen, I just need a few days. I have to help with the arrangements.”

_ I am the arrangements _ .

 

* * *

 

“Roy, I know I wanted to read you in on more of the computer stuff, but if you’re using our indestructible firewall to hide behind while you look for porn, I’m going to be pretty pissed.”

Instead of laughing, he jumped guiltily.

“I was--I was, um, actually just…”

“That’s not CFNM. That’s the FBI.” Felicity took a step closer. “Roy, why are looking for Thea?”

“Because I don’t think she is where she says she is.”

“And what makes you think that?” Felicity looked down at the sad piece of note paper in her hand. “You know Oliver needs to see this.”

“No. This is my fault. He’s going to kill me.”

“First of all, I’m not going to let him kill you. You know that. Second of all, she’s not returning his phone calls, and it’s killing  _ him _ .”

“What if she just needs space?”

“She’s had five months and so much space that you’re looking for her in secure government databases. Roy.” She looked him straight in the eyes. “Oliver needs to see this. And you need to be the one to show him.”

“Your phone’s buzzing.”

“What? Oh.” It was a brief but informative text from Dr. Kanerva. Her jaw dropped.

“Is everything okay?”

“That goat-fucking son of a whore.”

“Um. Where are you going?”

“Nowhere. If anyone asks, I went to Target for supplies for...you know.”

“Right.”

“First, though, we need to move her. Is there still power upstairs?”

“Yeah. You want me to put her in the…”

“I do.”

“Got it. You, um, go to Target. I’ll handle things here.”

“Thank you, Roy.”   
  


* * *

 

Felicity really, really hated the executive floor of Queen Consolidated, or whatever it was called now. Palmer would probably put his name on the building, like marking his soda in the break room fridge: RAY PALMER’S COMPANY DO NOT TOUCH SHARON THIS MEANS YOU. She tried deep calming breaths, aware that she was frayed, that her reactions were not entirely rational, that she needed to handle this like an adult. And then elevator door opened and she saw his smug, chiseled, coiffed, self-satisfied face and no amount of good intentions could save her.

“You!” she yelled to be heard over the workmen. “Heng dikh oyf a tsikershtrikl vest du hobn a zisn toyt!”

“Hi,” Palmer said, and turned to a contractor. “I’ll be right back.”

“What the hell are you doing to QC’s offices?”

“You like it? Yeah, I’m just trying to--”

“I don’t like it.”

“Right. Well. What can I do for you?”

“You can fuck right off, is what you can do.”

“That was...to the point.”

“Because I am never going to work for you.”

“Actually, you already do.”

“Only because you bought Glades Memorial!”

“If it wasn’t me, it was going to be Catholic Health Initiatives. You don’t seem like the kind of doctor who likes to be told what she can and can’t prescribe. Either way, I am your boss now.”

“Or not. My residency is over at New Year’s.”

“You know, most girls would be flattered that I expanded my empire into a new industry just to hire them.”

“I am not a girl,” Felicity called over her shoulder as she headed for the elevators. “I am not flattered. And I hope you know this isn’t what she wanted--what any of us wanted.”

“Felicity,” he said. “I piss people off on a daily basis. It’s part of business and, well, being the smartest guy in any room. I own that. So I have enough experience with people being angry at me to know when they’re really angry at someone else. You, right now, are not angry at me.”

“I’m not?” Felicity scoffed. “What a relief! I can’t tell you how much women love to hear about their true feelings from men. I don’t know what she ever saw in you.”

He flinched that time. “I know, we barely know each other…”

“I’m leaving.”

“Listen, whatever happened, I’m sorry. It helps to remember that it gets better.”

“No, it doesn’t.” She stepped in the elevator and hit the button for the lobby. “It just gets older.”

 

* * *

 

Felicity had never officially prepared a body for burial. She had helped nurses un-hitch bodies from their tubes and wires, rolled them into HRPs for transportation to morgues and mortuaries and funeral homes. After that, she never saw her patients again. She’d been too young to join chevra kadisha when she was still a regular at Temple. At least she was a little more familiar with a body than the vast majority of the American public, most of whom never saw a dead human without makeup and a formaldehyde infusion. But even her body from Anatomy, Mrs. Greyhound, had been a deeply respected object. Sara was a person.

Taking a deep breath, Felicity adjusted her beanie, made sure her gloves covered the cuffs of her sweatshirt, and stepped into Verdant’s walk-in fridge to go to work. As expected, the body remained very dead. Sara’s eyes were cloudy, and no longer closed. The blood in her body, uncirculated, obeyed gravity and pooled into the lividity that mottled her back body. 

“You know,” she whispered to Sara, approaching reverently, “Jews believe bodies to be very unclean, ritually speaking. There’s no real uncleanliness in a body, even if you die of something infectious. There are exceptions, like Ebola, but generally, once the host dies the parasite leaves. But we’re not supposed to linger, Jews. No embalming or viewing or any of that nonsense. Believe me, if people knew what embalming was really like, no one would do it. Nope, a quick turnaround time is all we need. Just get in your pine box and get the job done.”

Felicity brushed blonde hair away from Sara’s empty face. Using warm water from a pail and a washcloth, Felicity wiped away the congealed blood from her face and hairline.

“I’m going to take care of you,” she whispered. “I promise. I won’t let Laurel see you again, like this.” Felicity combed her fingers through Sara’s hair and began to weave it into a loose side braid that obscured the damage from the fall. By climbing onto the table, she was able to gain enough leverage to zip Sara’s sleeveless top up. She’d sutured the holes shut, which had probably reduced the circumference a little. 

“You know, Digg made you a coffin. He said he got it, but I think he made it. It’s a little crooked, just down by your feet. Is there anything we should put in it with you? You seemed to travel pretty light to me, but you never know. I definitely want to be buried with my phone. I’ll make sure you have a blanket, at least.”

And Felicity did, wrapping the body in a large black stadium blanket. Her technique wasn’t great, but in the end, Sara was fully covered. Felicity’s hands were steady as she stitched the blanket into a shroud, covering Sara’s face last.

Felicity still hadn’t had a chance to go home and drink and cry with Regina Spektor, which she now desperately needed to do. Possibly while taking a shower. She could sit on the floor and cry, drunk, and it would feel like a million dollars because this day would not end and she really needed it to be over. She needed to reset. Instead, she got mistaken for IT.

“Why isn’t this working?” Oliver asked, indicating a program running on their computers.

“It is,” she said, tired. “It’s just a big ass NSA algorithm with a lot of data to chew through.”

“Well, it’s taking too long. Sara’s killer is still out there, which means that every minute that we waste--”

“Enough!” she said. “Can you not.”

“I apologize,” he said, chastened. “I just need your A-game right now, Felicity.”

“This is as good as it’s gonna get,” she said bluntly. “I haven’t slept. I haven’t showered. I just spent an hour...getting her ready. I am trying to keep it together here, just like you are, but maybe lay off me for five minutes.”

“Yeah, well, we don’t have the luxury of time. And I don’t have the luxury of falling to pieces.”

“Hey,” Felicity said softly, sensing brittleness. “I’m taking a breath. I’m not falling to pieces. The algorithm is working. This is just...that shitty time in between things happening. You can unbend. A little. If you want”

“Everyone’s looking to me to handle things, to make the right decisions. Everyone is looking to me to lead. If I grieve, nobody else gets to.”

“Oliver.” She turned her chair to face him and steeled herself. He looked wrecked. “You don’t have to grieve right now. Or in front of anyone. But in a little while, maybe after we catch this guy, or before, or whenever. You can be sad about this.”

“I can’t. Earlier today, when I was looking at Sara, I realized something. One of these days, it’s going to be me on the table. And this, this life that I’ve chosen.”

“Nobody gets to pick their time. I work in an ER, in a shitty neighborhood. Nobody gets to pick their time. Nobody wants to get cancer and die chemotoxicity. Nobody wants to get hooked on oxy and die under a bridge. Nobody wants toddlers to fall into bathtubs. But it all happens.”

Oliver shook his head. “It only ends one way.”

“Fine.” Felicity physically threw up her hands, too tired to fight any more fights. “I know nothing. You know everything. You can just stay down here like a mushroom. I have to go.”

“Where?” he asked, while she pulled her messenger bag on.

“To make a list of demands.”

 

* * *

 

“Felicity, I really need to talk to you. So please, can you call me back as soon as you get this?”

Felicity stepped out of the courthouse, and listened to the message with profound confusion. It was an unknown number and it sounded like Laurel. She held the phone out, frowning at the screen for a few moments before calling back.

“Hi, Laurel. It’s me. Felicity. You knew that, probably, since you have my number. I’m just, uh, doing a little research topside. What can I do you for?”  _ What can I do you for? Am I fucking extra on Bonanza?  _ She closed her eyes and shook her head, feeling the way Laurel always made her feel: unpolished, clumsy, with jeans that didn’t need hemming anymore because the floor and sidewalk had just eaten away the spare inches over time.

“I’ve got a name.”

“Yahtzee.”  _ Fucking yahtzee? _ “I’ll see you back. There. At the place. Under, you know.”

She hung up before she could do further damage to her own self-image. Yahtzee.

 

* * *

 

They were gathering in the lair now. Laurel and Oliver were talking quietly. She looked like she was holding it together with a wing and a prayer, although she was dressed properly for an interment. Felicity had changed into a black sweater, but kept her jeans and sneakers. She didn’t think Sara would mind.

“Roy?” Felicity asked quietly.   


“Yeah?”

“Has anyone arranged for...transportation yet? I did the measurements, and the van won’t work.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Okay. I need you to go out and steal a pickup with a covered bed. And I hope it goes without saying that you absolutely cannot get caught.”

He winked at her. “I never get caught.”

“You get caught like all the time, Roy. I know, because I was usually the one picking you up from the precinct before--”

“Before Thea. Yeah.”

“Okay. Be careful.”

“I will.”

Felicity moved on to John, tugging at his elbow. “You ready?”

“Yeah.”

They slipped up the stairs and into the club’s walk-in fridge. Sara remained on the table, fully enshrouded in the blanket. Roy and Digg had carried the pine box up earlier, when neither Laurel nor Oliver would have to see. 

“This is good work,” John said, looking at the stitching.

“Thanks,” she said. “I’ve never had to do it before. I tried to get her ready, you know. I, um, I fixed her clothes and sutured her. I think I got most of the blood off. And...I braided her hair, too.” Felicity realized she was starting to cry and that she wasn’t going to be able to prevent it now. “I don’t know if she’d like that or not. I don’t think I ever saw her hair in a braid. She liked it down, but--”

“Come here.” John Diggle’s hugs were no joke. They applied warmth and pressure and safety, like a thundershirt. He somehow knew exactly how much force was required to hold you together. Felicity cried quietly for a little bit and when she was done, he gave her one extra squeeze and released her. Then he looked her straight in the eye and said, “You did good work.”

“So did you.”

“Let’s take her home.”

Roy drove the stolen truck and Felicity rode in the bed with Sara. The van followed behind with the others. It took all of the team acting as pallbearers, with Laurel going ahead, to walk Sara from the pickup truck to her own grave. They waited in silence while John and Oliver and Roy took turns working with shovels. With the three of them in rotation, it didn't take long before they had a satisfactory depth. Oliver, John, Felicity, and Roy lowered her in, hitting their knees in the dirt to ease the casket in, without slipping or dropping. They they helped each other climb out.

“She can rest now,” Oliver said. “She’s home.”

Digg reached for the shovel, but Felicity stepped forward first.

“Al mekomah tavo shalom,” she said, and reached out for the shovel. Digg passed it to her. She took a scoop of grave dirt, which smelled damp and wholesome. Then she tossed it gently onto the lid of the pine coffin, where it scattered. “It’s a custom. It’s the last act of kevod ha-met, um, respect or maybe dignity, for the dead.”

Oliver reached out his hand and she passed the shovel to him. He turned to 

“No, this isn’t right. It--she doesn’t even get a fresh grave? This is so perverse.”

“She deserves a proper burial,” he said. “She’s earned it.”

_ What will you earn? _ Felicity wondered.

“No, it’s not fair. No one will ever really know who she was. Oliver, it’s not fair! It’s not fair!”

“Laurel, we’ll know,” Digg said. “I know this doesn’t count for much, but me and Lyla, we’re naming the baby Sara. We will never forget.”

“Thank you.”

Roy stepped up, and took his turn with the shovel.

 

* * *

 

This time, as she rode the elevator up, she took a certain satisfaction in the the fact that she was tracking cemetery dirt in with her. Palmer’s remodel could just suck on that.

“Hey,” he said, looking chiseled and actually happy to see her.

“Hi.”

“You changed your mind?”

“No. Yes. We’ll see.” She handed him a spiral bound steno pad that was nearly full of writing, with sub-clauses and marginalia scrawled throughout.

“What’s this?”

“My terms.”

“Oh,” he looked down the list. “And what do you consider to be your non-negotiables?”

“All of it. Let me know if you decide it’s worth it. Oh and don’t show up at the hospital again. You’re on the no-go list.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anywhozlebee, if you finished this and thought you'd like to know even more about death and the death industry, you should try the following books:  
> Smoke Gets In Your Eyes by Caitlin Doughty (I cannot recommend this one enough!)  
> Stiff by Mary Roach (things that happens to your body after you die)  
> When Breath Becomes Air by Dr. Paul Kalanithi (this one is the most likely to put you crying on the floor of your shower)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the boys go on vacation, and Felicity goes...somewhere else.

_ We must believe in free will--we have no choice. _

-Isaac Bashevis Singer

 

**Starling, 2014**

FITZROY: no one warned me.

FITZROY: they made me go first at security and told me to not use the machine.

FITZROY: they said to ask for the pat down.

Oh, baby boy.

FITZROY: i’ve had real pat downs from real cops.

FITZROY: these rentacops are outside their minds.

FITZROY: that guy was a fucking pervert.

Did you get his name?

FITZROY: of course. R. Moore.

FITZROY: wait. what are you going to do with it?

I never kiss and tell.

Now listen to me.

Drink water on the plane, not booze.

Lots of water.

Eat all the snacks they give you and ask for extras.

Hide the extras in your backpack.

When the boys get cranky because they haven’t eaten

Unwrap each snack individually and enjoy it loudly.

Do not offer to share.

FITZROY: there’s no food just snacks?

Tell Oliver to buy you a damn airport sandwich or I’ll lose his return ticket.

And Thea’s.   
  


* * *

 

Felicity’s pretend-funny ulcer was turning into more of an ulcer-ulcer. She was living on TUMS, coffee, shower-crying, and whatever smoothies Digg snuck into her field of vision. Sara was dead. Laurel was not handling it. Thea was still gone. Palmer had bought her hospital and accepted her terms. She crunched two antacids as she pedaled around the corner, to a location she hadn’t returned to in months. What remained of the Robert Queen Memorial Clinic.

“Dr. Smoak! Good morning!”

“Of course,” she muttered. “He’s a morning person.”

“I see you bike to work! It’s very green of you!”

“Not really. I just can’t afford a car.”

“Let me offer you a coffee,” Palmer said smoothly, taking a reusable ceramic travel mug from his hovering assistant. 

What was it about rich people that made them so terrified to even acknowledge poverty? Once you passed a certain tax bracket, you couldn’t catch poor anymore. For not the first time, Felicity wished Sebastian Blood hadn’t been so nuts. If he had dialed it back to like an eight, he could have done great things. Felicity took the coffee.

“Thank you, Jerry,” Palmer said.

“Thank you, Jerry,” she repeated.

“And this,” Palmer gestured to a pickup and a woman in her early fifties with a hardhat, “is Angela Nussbaum. She’s the architect.”

“Nussbaum like…”

“Yes, an aunt. Angela, I want you to meet Dr. Smoak.”

“Call me Felicity.” She offered her hand and received a very firm shake indeed.

“Let’s talk turkey,” Angela said. “The only reason this building hasn’t been condemned is because the inspectors haven’t gotten to it yet.”

“An area of opportunity!” He was like one of those labradoodles where the hybridization failed and the wires just crossed.

“Ray,” Angela interrupted, looking pained. “Don’t you have work? Somewhere else?”

“Right you are! Can’t wait to see the plans! Jerry, make a note. I want to look into bikeshare and commuter trails.”

“That boy is a trial,” Angela said, and began unrolling plans. “But he’s alright. Now. Let’s talk about crawl space.”

 

* * *

 

FITZROY: it’s so. sunny.

FITZROY: it’s like there’s a whole other world. with sun.

But only outside the PNW.

One day I’ll take you to Vegas.

You can just lay by a pool and bake.

I’ll turn you over before you get crispy.

FITZROY: srsly should i buy sunscreen?

Tell Diggle you need some.

Ten bucks says it’s already in his bag.

FITZROY: does he like even need it though?

Ten bucks.

FITZROY: done.

FITZROY: dammit.

That’s what I thought.

FITZROY: his backpack is like mary poppins with the lamp and shit

FITZROY: i thought you were bad

FITZROY: i think he thinks we’re invading

The three of you probably could.   
  


* * *

 

“I really hate this conference room.”

“We’re having all the furniture--”

“Yeah, we’re not meeting here. I had to jump out that window last year and that’s actually pretty low on the list of conference room traumas.”

“Could I interest you in something on a lower floor?”

“Much better, thanks.”

She’d just sat down and set her messenger bag on the tabletop when Palmer’s assistant presented her with a mug of hot coffee and an unopened bottle of TUMS. These people. Luckily, Felicity was cut off by her phone ringing. She held up one finger to Palmer to indicate she was going to have to take it.

“Sorry. One second.”

“Hey, Felicity, this is John. Where are you?” He was using the Army Of One voice. Not a good sign.

“On a road paved with good intentions.”

“Are you near a computer?”

“Uh...I am now,” she said, pulling her Hood-funded laptop out.

“I’m looking for somebody in Corto Maltese.”

“And I appreciate that. But thing is, I’m kind of in a--”

“I need to know where he is. I've emailed you everything I have on him.”

“ ...meeting right now.” Felicity looked up at Palmer. “It’s one of my interns with a question about a patient.  Actually. You know what, it's a long story.”

“Why am I under the impression that you have a lot of stories, all of which are long? You want me to come back later?”

“No, this won’t take long.” Her phone beeped--another call. From...Laurel fucking Lance. “You’ve reached Dr. Smoak.”

“Hello? Felicity, I need a favor.”

“I’m sorry, Dr. Ross. I told you I only date surgeons.”

“What?”

“Never mind, sorry.” The phone rang again. “Moshe Rabbeinu. One second. One more second.

“Hello? We got cut off.”

“According to his chart, this guy is somewhat of a...drug-seeker?”

“Let me guess,” Palmer said, “long story?

“What?” John’s voice. “The guy I'm looking for broke into ARGUS's system.”

“And he left a trail. Of forged prescriptions. But with a little bit of luck, I will find him, or his pharmacist. I will email you when I have something.” Felicity clicked back over. “Dr. Ross, I'm having a bit of a day.”

“I need you to help me find someone by googling his phone or something.” Laurel fucking Lance.

“I told you I would never hurt Carol like that. I’ll call you back later, when you’ve had time to think this over rationally, Doug.” Felicity ended the call and dropped the phone like a hot potato.

“Is this what a typical day looks like for you?”

“Believe it or not, this is better than most.”

 

* * *

 

(RESTRICTED NUMBER): In the fortress Shushan lived a Jew by the name of Mordecai son of Jair son of Shimei son of Kish, a Benjaminite.

Who is this?

(RESTRICTED NUMBER): Kish had been exiled from Jerusalem in the group that was carried into exile along with King Jeconiah of Judah, which had been driven into exile by King Nebuchadnezzar of Babylon.

Who is this?

Who the fuck is this?

(RESTRICTED NUMBER): He was faster father to Hadassah--that is, Esther--his uncle’s daughter, for she had neither father nor mother.

Do you have him?

What do you want?

Who is this?

 

* * *

 

“The renovation plans for the clinic are coming along nicely,” Palmer commented, looking them over in their conference room. “I want to hear your suggestions for the rest of the block, too.”

“Oh for the love of--you bought the block? Of course you did.” She sighed, rubbing her forehead. “Find the remaining tenants from the area. There was a guy with a great bodega. And give the Lutherans all the space they want for a new shelter.”

“Dr. Smoak, I don’t want to presume. You’ve made it perfectly clear that I tend to presume. But are you okay?”

“I need a few days off.”  _That is the least of what I need but let's start there_.

“We just got started on this.”

“I can’t do demo work anyway. And I don’t care about the rest of the block. Just the clinic.” Felicity tried to look him in the eye. “This is...family business. The family business, actually. It’s…”

“A long story?”

“Yeah. sorry.”  _I really am this time._

“I’ll see you when you get back.”

“Thanks, Palmer.”  _Please don't replace me too soon._

 

* * *

 

FITZROY: hey, where are you?

 

* * *

 

FITZROY: digg called your work and they said you’re on vacation.

 

* * *

 

FITZROY: did you leave town? things are getting weird. sara’s ex is back. and so is merlyn.

 

* * *

 

FITZROY: srsly call us oliver is only taking in grunts now

 

* * *

 

FITZROY: doc?

 

* * *

 

FITZROY: felicity?

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Secret Origin of someone or other.

_ There are three types of lies: lies, damn lies, and statistics. _

-Benjamin Disraeli

 

**Starling, Fall 2012**

It had taken him longer than he thought it would to visit the clinic in the Glades with his father’s name on the front door. In so many ways, Robert Queen had vanished as if he never was. In some cases, he had even been replaced. Oliver had, of course, witnessed his true vanishing act five years earlier.

The clinic only made him angry. Angrier. It was dingy and understaffed by one small blonde nurse and her androgynous receptionist, who spent most of the day making paper airplanes with the various children in the waiting room. It wasn’t good enough. The nurse, or maybe social worker, lived above the clinic in what Oliver assumed to be a fairly shabby apartment. She was out on an errand, and he was about to let himself into her place when there was movement at the corner of his field of vision.

A cadaverous figure in a dark coat was moving briskly across the street, towards the bodega, which the nurse had just stepped out of. Her head was down, shifting her plastic bag between hands, completely unaware of her surroundings. The thin man moved faster. Oliver, the Hood, dropped down directly in front of him. It only took one good kick to lay the creep out.

“Stop!” the nurse squealed. “Stop! It’s just Neal!”

“You know this man?” What did he expect.

“Yes. Yes. He’s...He’s fine.” She was flustered, but not so flustered that she couldn’t kneel beside the man, whose breath was coming back.

“He was following you.”

“He was looking for...me. He was looking for me.”

“Miss...Smoak,” the man gasped. In this light, he looked confused, rather than menacing.

“Are you alright?” the nurse asked, turning her back entirely on him. The man with the arrows.

She was a doctor. She was pissed. And she was very good at her job. But what Oliver would remember for the rest of his life was the way she gave him her back. Dr. Felicity Smoak, D.O., was not afraid of the Hood. Of him.

 

**Starling, November 2014**

The last person Oliver wanted to see was the first one to waltz into the club during their council of war. There wasn’t time for this.

“Oliver,” John said, eyeing the monitor.

“I see him. Stay here.”

He climbed the stairs at a normal pace, taking the time to adjust his face for its context. It wasn’t as easy as it should have been. He paused at the top and shrugged his shoulders into a more relaxed pose.

“Mr. Palmer?” he asked, rounding the corner into the club’s dim interior.

“Mr. Queen! Oliver. Can I call you Oliver?”

“Of course. Ray.” He tried to make his smile look real, but he couldn’t feel the corners of his eyes move. “How can I help you?”

“I don’t mean to pry. Well, I do mean to pry a little. It’s somewhat unavoidable.”

“Ray.”

“Have you seen Dr. Smoak?”

“No,” Oliver said smoothly. “I believe she’s in Coast City.”

“I was under the impression that she’d be back in a few days, but it’s been a week and at the risk of overestimating my significance, she’s not returning my calls.”

“I’m sure she’s just turned her phone off for a while.” As if Felicity could ever perform such a feat. “And at the risk of prying myself, why are you trying to reach her?”

“Well, as I’m sure you know, we’re collaborating on reopening your father’s clinic.”

Oliver inhaled through his nose and tried to keep his expression of surprise mild and pleasant.

“She didn’t tell you. Wait, I wasn’t supposed to tell you. It was one of a very long list of conditions under which she would work for me. With me, I should say.”

“No, she didn’t tell me.”

“It was her first condition--the renovation and reopening of clinic. The second was that I not change the name.”

“I didn’t know.” She wasn’t even here and she still managed an effective ambush. Oliver swallowed. “Listen, if I hear from her, I’ll tell her you’re trying to get in touch. But I’m sure she’ll switch her phone back on once she’s inside city limits.”

“Sure.” Palmer did not look entirely convinced. “The club looks good.”

“My sister should be re-opening it soon. I’ll try and get you on the list. She should have some spots for her big brother.”

“That’s very kind of you, Oliver, thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

Oliver hustled back down the stairs where Digg and Roy were waiting, eyes on him, expectant.

“What did he want?” John asked.

“Nothing.” Oliver cleared his throat. “Roy, I want you to canvass her movements from a week ago. Where she went, what she ate, which of your friends or hers might have seen her around.”

“Got it.”

“John, I’d like you to look through her equipment here and see if there’s anything that might give us a suggestion. Recent searches, that sort of thing.”

“Where are you going?” Digg asked, calmly. Calm was contagious.

“To her apartment.”

It was the way he remembered it, somehow both bare and cramped at the same time. On this visit, though, it was spotless, save a small bundle of paper in her papasan chair. The bed was made and not only was the sink empty of dirty dishes, it had clearly been scoured. Her laundry basket had been safely tucked into her closet. She had a single duffel bag, with butterflies on it, and it was still there. Felicity had cleaned her apartment, tidied her belongings, and left.

Oliver circled back to the chair. There was a small stack of paperwork and on the top was an envelope. She had printed very clearly: _ BURN AFTER READING _ . And beneath that:  _ That was a joke and a movie reference _ . He set the envelope to the side and picked up the rest of the papers. Underneath was her Walther PPK and her cell phone, a small charging cord snaking out to the wall. Oliver gave himself a moment to take a deep breath. Her phone. At the very bottom was a hardback copy of  _ The Runaway Bunny _ . He began to look at the paperwork.

There was a Nevada driver’s license for Elisheva Smekhov, with a photo of Felicity Smoak. There was a certificate for lifeguarding, and one for EMS training. There was a single photo of a young, teenage Felicity smiling at the camera, standing beside an older man who had an arm around her. She was leaning in, his arm clearly securing her there. He wasn’t smiling, but she was radiant, even though she was wearing the most unflattering combination of wire-rimmed glasses and cargo pants imaginable. There was more paperwork attached, but he turned back to the sealed envelope.

 

**Starling, January 2013**

He would never have come back here, where Diggle had been seen by her twice, and where she had met the Hood. It was risky, even by his island-adjusted standards. And if he could breathe, he would absolutely be somewhere else than banging on the tiny doctor’s door. Without meaning to, he was sliding down onto his knees. Not good.

“Felicity.” He forced it past his lips, his whole throat stung and had begun to swell. There wasn’t enough air--he was getting confused.

“Who is it?”

“Me,” he said, before he could give his name. Silence. She wasn’t coming. “Can’t. Breathe.”

“Fuck my fucking life,” was what it sounded like she muttered before she opened the door. She might be short, but she was strong, taking much of his weight as he crawled into the apartment.

Oliver leaned back against a wall fighting to keep himself upright, trying to remember to keep his cowl down. He knocked a hand away when she reached for it.

“I need to see your lips, jackass, to see if they’re blue.” She was annoyed, but not angry.

He took the oxygen mask when she offered it and within a breath or two his head began to clear. Everything hurt. He’d taken in a lot of smoke. But this was better. This was good. She was lecturing him now, matter-of-fact and emphatic. He should be paying attention. So Oliver stared at her linoleum floor and tried to focus.

“... I help people a lot shadier than you are every day. Drug dealers, wife-beaters, and I don’t say jack about shit and that is hill I will die on. So don’t ever think you can’t come here because I’ll snitch. That is not how this works.”

“Why?” Everyone always wanted to know who was under the hood. They wanted to know and he could feel them wanting to know, sometimes even as he plugged them full of arrows. No one ever started by promising to keep his secret. No one else had ever sounded like they meant it.

“Because I don’t want you to die on my porch because you were afraid to come in.”

“I can’t.” And then, he added, “not yet.”

She fell asleep on the table while his saline drip was still going. Now he could lift his head and look at her, even if she might open her eyes at any moment. He needed more. Her arms were crossed and her head was laid on them, facing him. Her glasses were crooked and her mouth was a little bit open. She didn’t snore, but she breathed heavily, like she was working hard at sleeping. She wore sweatpants and a grayish tank top worn to paper-thinness by time. If he focused--and he did focus--he could see the barest shadow of her nipples.

The oxygen must really be working because he felt a sudden twinge of arousal for her, this short woman with her willingness to open doors and her very threadbare shirt. Were her nipples pink? Rosy? Or maybe even lighter, like champagne… This was a part of Ollie that refused to die on the island. He knew he wasn’t as selfish anymore with women, or as clumsy, but he was still curious. He still wanted more.

When the saline was done, Oliver removed the IV, put a bandaid on, and coiled the empty bag in the trash. Felicity didn’t move, but continued to sleep heavily, exhausted. He started the coffeemaker on his way out.

He came to her again, as Oliver Queen, when he was coming down from his vertigo overdose. Again, she kept faith and kept silent. And when he was bleeding to death in the QC parking lot, Oliver Queen did not hesitate.   
  


**Starling, November 2014**

_ Oliver, _

_ At least I assume it’s Oliver. It might be John. John, if it’s you, stop reading and give this to Oliver. It will save us both a lot of embarrassment. Thank you. _

_ Okay, Oliver. If you’re reading this, Amanda Waller has me. Don’t lose your shit. I’m probably fine. This actually has nothing to do with you, and everything to do with me and my family. I know I told you I didn’t have one, but it’s kind of a long story. Anyway. I won’t bother to tell you not to come looking for me, but we both know that would be a joke. Just be careful. _

_ John can’t be involved. It will put him and Lyla and the baby in danger. I know he’ll insist, but he needs to at least stay out of sight. Nobody but the four of us can know about this.  _ _ Nobody _ _. It’s dangerous and also I’ll die of mortification if you tell. I keep your secrets. _

_ If I had to guess, I’m being held in a secure ARGUS safe house or black site. I’ve taken precautions. Contact Oracle (in my phone as @DELPHI, your thumbprint will unlock the screen). She’s terrified of ARGUS, too, even though she won’t admit it, but she’ll be able to find me and hack any security feeds you need, as long as you give her the password. _

_ Do you understand? _

_ -Felicity _

 

**Starling, May 2013**

“Did I ever tell you I used to be a lifeguard?” Felicity was stretched out in the backseat of his Bentley and now she was giving him visual prompts. She looked great in red. She’d look great in a red swimsuit. She’d look great in a sack. “Felicity?”

“Yeah?”

“Your work history is remarkable.”

“Thank you for remarking on it.”

“Are you ready?”

“I was born ready.” She was biting her lip, which was a pale peach color that might or might not match her--

“Felicity.” Oliver tried for stern.

“No, really.” Her eyes sparkled. “This is gonna be awesome.”

And it was.

It turned out that Felicity, who once ripped a chunk of hair directly from Helena’s head, was afraid of heights. He wasn’t the kind of man who liked seeing women frightened, even at movies. 

“Can I close my eyes?” she asked him. “I want to close my eyes.”

“Hey, Felicity.” He ducked so that her arm was around his shoulder, and his arm was around her ribs. She clung to him tenaciously. “You can close your eyes. Hold onto me tight.”

“I imagined you saying that under different circumstances.”

Oliver looked at her, face carefully blank.

“Very professional, medical circumstances.” Then she closed her eyes very tight. She was blushing.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Uh-huh.”

As he swung her across the elevator shaft, he felt her breath, hot and damp against his suit jacket. She held on like a limpet and her breath quickened. Either she was going to have a real anxiety attack or…

“You alright?”

“I’m fine.”

“You look a little flushed.” 

“This is my breaking and entering face.” Her voice was breathless, less...declarative than usual. “I always look like this when I break and enter.”

He wasn’t alone--she felt it, too.   
  


 

**Starling, November 2014**

Oliver set the small stack of paperwork, documents, and Felicity’s phone on the stainless steel table. John stood at parade rest, arms folded in front of him, while Roy pawed through her things. Her note, the one addressed to him, was folded and tucked into the breast pocket of his motorcycle jacket, over his heart.

“Who the hell is Elisheva Smekhov?” Roy asked. He seemed to be taking the news much better than Oliver, who felt like he might vomit.

“An alias,” John said. “Or maybe Felicity Smoak is the alias. It doesn’t matter right now. We need to know who the man in the picture is.” 

“She doesn’t have any family,” Oliver said, looking closely at the paper.

“Elisheva might,” Roy pointed out. 

“What is she trying to tell us?” Oliver asked, gesturing at the paperwork. “Why did she leave this?”

“She already told us who has her and where she is. Maybe this is the why?” The younger man looked back and forth. “What?”

“That...makes sense,” Oliver admitted.

“And what’s this weird text message?” Roy asked. “The one about Shushan. She seems freaked out by it.”

“Let me see that.” Digg held out his hand and scrolled through carefully. “This is from the book of Esther.”

“What’s that one about?” Roy asked.

“You got a bible handy?”

“Sure,” Roy scoffed. “We keep it in the hardware drawer underneath the Glock magazines.”

Oliver scowled and handed John a tablet. John tapped at it with agonizing slowness. Felicity would have pulled up everything about Esther and at least five irrelevant facts by this point.  _ Where are you? _

  
  


**Lian Yu, October 2013**

He was annoyed. Not just because they had obviously followed him here, but because Digg had immediately put her on top of a landmine. Oliver removed her from the landmine, but had the upsetting feeling that the Felicity in his arms was not the one he’d left the night of the Undertaking. She’d had the breath knocked out of her, but there was more. She was curled in on herself. And thinner. And hurt?

“Felicity? Are you okay? What happened to your hair?” A large stripe had been shaved and he could see a healing scar.

“Move.” John knocked him out of the way, like they hadn’t traveled around the world for just this meeting, and checked her head, and then the rest of her. “Nothing broken this time, I don’t think.”

“This time?” Oliver could see that she was holding herself differently. 

“Oof.” Felicity’s breath returned and then, God help him, she smiled right into his face. “Hi.”

John had lied to him, or at least kept it from him, that Felicity had almost died that night. She’d gone back into the Glades, found Roy, and been hit by a car. And she and John had been alone, all summer, doing PT and waiting for the casts to come off.

“You didn’t tell me,” Oliver said, accusingly, when he and John were alone.

“You were already gone, man. Nothing was going to stop you.”

Oliver wouldn’t leave again.

  
  


**Starling, November 2014**

“Um,” Roy said. “Guys?”

“What?” Oliver snapped.

“I have good news and bad news. Elisheva Smekhov is a ghost. But there is another Smekhov that pops up in Felicity’s criminal databases for dummies search application. His name is Duvid.”

“And?” John prodded.

“Well Duvid’s grandfather Luzor came through Ellis Island with a bunch of other Jewish Russians. He and his son Isaak, Duvid’s father, show up on a bunch of documents associated with the mob.”

“What mob?”

“This is going to turn out to be a dumb question, I can tell, but what the hell is Murder, Inc.?”   
  


 

**Starling, November 2013**

“Do you have a situation?” He asked it calmly, painfully aware of the press crowding the courthouse.

“Yes.” She sounded shaky. “I have a situation. I’m at the foundry. Send John.”

Oliver sent John, but he wasn’t far behind.   


“Oliver? Why is Oliver here?” Her hair was damp with sweat, but she shivered, even though she was well wrapped in blankets.

“I heard you passed out.” Without thinking, he put the back of his hand against her cheek. It was clammy and flushed. “You look like you need medical attention.”

They couldn’t take her to a hospital, even though it was pretty clear she needed one. She was shaking so hard that Oliver had to hold her arm so that John could start an IV. There were going to be bruises, that he gave her.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said.

She would swear that he hadn’t, but it was hard to believe that night, when he saw her tied to the Count’s chair. Her hair was down, sticking to the drying blood from her nose. She wanted to fix his leg. She cried and she apologized because he’d killed again. Oliver had already forgotten.

 

**Starling, May 2014**

_ What would your mother do, Oliver? _

He hadn’t liked the question because he knew the answer:  _ anything _ . And he didn’t like this, even though he should. He was on his Ducati, his favorite place, and Felicity was holding him tightly around his middle, pressing her entire body into his. It was not a short trip to the Queen mansion. If he kept thinking about what he was going to do, he wouldn’t make it all the way there.

So Oliver allowed himself ten minutes of fantasy. He had learned to be very strict with his imagination while he was gone. Too much would distract you. Not enough would dishearten you. Ten minutes was a good amount. Ten minutes of dreaming that one day he would ride off into the sunset with a good woman, maybe one who just happened to be blonde, who happened to not be afraid of him. 

Maybe he, or they, could go live in some yuppie suburb and take cooking classes and yoga. Maybe he could do CrossFit for fun. Maybe they’d get a dog. He would be strict about the dog sleeping on the bed. But in the mornings, when he woke up early to do CrossFit for fun, he’d go to change clothes and the dog would already be on the bed with her. And he couldn’t kick the dog out without waking her up, which the dog would of course know. They would definitely get a dog.

Then he arrived at the gates of the mansion and he cut off the train of thought like a sea anchor. 

  
  


**Starling, November 2014**

I think you know who this is.

@DELPHI: You’re using her phone.

She left it for me.

I need to know where she is.

@DELPHI: You must be the dumb motherfucker running around Starling like William Tell.

@DELPHI: Have you considered leaving the Bronze Age.

@DELPHI: You know you can get a used trebuchet pretty cheap.

@DELPHI: Oh and also they make guns now. 

I need to know where she is

@DELPHI: Password.

She didn’t tell me what the password was.

We don't have time for this.

I have to find her.

@DELPHI: Not my problem.

@DELPHI: Password.

Tell me where she is.

Tell me where she is.

@DELPHI: Password

I don’t care where you are or who you work for.

I need to know where she is. Now.

@DELPHI: Password.

@DELPHI: Password.

@DELPHI: Password.

@DELPHI: Do you understand?

@DELPHI: Do you understand?

@DELPHI: Do you understand?

I love you.

@DELPHI: Stand by.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, please tell me if you catch typos!


	5. Chapter 5

_ The past isn’t dead. It isn’t even past. _

-William Faulkner

 

**Las Vegas, 2005**

Felicity was not quite sixteen years old when her uncle poured her a glass of wine and explained the truth about her family of origin. Some orphans dreamed of being adopted by Daddy Warbucks, or being secret heirs to royal families, or their dad was undercover in the CIA, or just a kindly grandma was out there waiting for them. No one dreamed that they came from a long line of distinguished Jewish hitmen.

The Smoaks, Felicity and Donna, were pure fabrication. It was a bastardization of the true family name, Smekhov. Luzor Smekhov arrived fresh from the pogroms with what could charitably be described as a particular set of skills. He had family back in Russia. He had a wife and son to support in America. So he rented a one room apartment in Ocean Hill and went to work for Lepke Buchalter. His son, Isaak, worked for Bugsy Siegel.

The thirties were not a good time for Jews in any part of Europe. Families could get out, but it cost money. Isaak and his wife Rivkah borrowed, heavily, to save as many as they could. Isaak worked hard, but never quite caught up. Bugsy bought the debt from the Italians, to lessen the burden. As a consequence, the family grew increasingly reliant on Bugsy’s goodwill.

Isaak who brought the family to Vegas when Bugsy opened the Flamingo. Duvid was born in Clark County. And later, Dine Smekhov was too. Dine was a golden child, the apple of her father’s eye. So when she began calling herself Donna and dyeing her hair blonde, Isaak turned a blind eye. When she begged her big brother Duvid for papers, identity documents that would let her start over, Isaak turned a blind eye. Duvid forged the papers, and never saw his sister again. Rivkah died having never met her only grandchild.

Duvid joined the family business, but he lacked the necessary detachment to grow truly proficient. Luzor and Isaak had been born into violent worlds. Duvid had been born into neon and desert stars. Isaak’s great gift was his brazenness. He would kill a man anywhere, at any time, if the price was right. Duvid was the master of subtlety, invisibility. When he left a scene, no one could quite remember how tall he was or the color of his windbreaker. When Isaak died, Duvid inherited the family debt, and then the debt was sold again, this time outside the Syndicate.

Fetter Duvid explained this all to Felicity, and it was like it was someone else’s family. After Isaak’s death, in a twist worthy of an Isaac Bashevis Singer story, the debt that had paid to rescue Russian and Polish Jews caught between two world powers was now in the hands of the Russian mafia. After Dine’s death, it had taken Fetter some time to negotiate a sabbatical with his employers. But while they themselves had forsworn blood family, they weren’t beyond reason, and eventually they came to an understanding.

But now the Bratva wanted him back.

 

**Undisclosed Location, November 2014**

It turned out that being detained illegally in an extralegal ARGUS blacksite safehouse-prison was not the worst time Felicity had ever had. It was light years better than her first semester at MIT and, of course, her brief stint at Spring Mountain Youth Camp. Inside, the rooms were comfortable, but somewhat tacky. Like a VRBO that hadn’t been updated in years. It was still the Pacific Northwest, so it had a coffee and evergreen motif, which meant unfinished pine and plaid and a half-decent espresso machine.

There was no wifi, but there was cable and an extensive DVD collection. There were books and cookbooks lining several walls. There was also closed circuit video, discreet but undisguised cameras. Everyday around noon, she got a visit from a guard named Sandra. Sandra was brisk, professional, and built like a brick shithouse. She did not make small talk, but she did accept grocery lists and takeout orders.

Felicity finished  _ Breaking Bad _ and  _ The Wire _ and re-read  _ Ronja the Robber’s Daughter _ and started in on the  _ Meditations  _ of Marcus Aurelius. She cooked and set on fire several meals before deciding to stick with salad, oatmeal, and takeout. That was her sweet spot, anyway. She did all her PT, on time, as prescribed. She did workouts off DVDs in the living, wearing clothes that fit her perfectly from the closet. Even the yoga pants were hemmed.

Mostly, though, she slept. A lot. Like twelve hours a day. Residents were always tired, that was just a fact of life. But given both her residency and her night job, Felicity had long ago ceased to actually feel the degree of fatigue. Now she fell asleep during repeat marathons of  _ Say Yes to the Dress _ in the morning and  _ Real Housewives of Gotham _ in the afternoon. Plus a solid nine to ten every night. Nightmares still woke her, but they didn’t chase her into consciousness. She was able to turn over, and sleep again.

On the third night, she had a good dream. A very good dream. She was making dinner in her own tiny studio kitchen--dream logic meant she could cook--and chopping and dicing like Ina Garten. Then, big hands grabbed her aproned waist from behind. But she wasn’t frightened, even though she gave a little squeal. She turned around and hugged the man that had grabbed her, resting her face against his chest, pushing her breasts against his torso. In point of fact, she never looked at his face, but he smelled like Old Spice and fresh, healthy sweat. Dreaming, she put her arms around his neck and he backed her against the cabinet and pushed one knee between her legs. Felicity grabbed him harder, digging her fingernails into his trapezius, easing herself slowly up and down his thigh...

The dark circles under her eyes disappeared. Her near-ulcer faded away. Her skin practically glowed. She asked Sandra for some fancy skin and bath stuff and they were delivered in the afternoon with her Chicken Larb. Felicity drank cold beer and soaked in a bath that smelled like peaches and honey, with little flower petals floating in it, while she wore a facemask with actual flecks of gold in it. She didn’t know if there was a camera in the bathroom, it was possible that it was just really well-hidden. Secretly, she kind of hoped Amanda Waller could see what a good time she was having.

On day six, it was starting to get old. What the hell could be taking Oliver so long? It was a password, it wasn’t rocket science. Surely at some point, Oracle would crack the feed just to make sure she was alive? Sooner or later one of their vigilantes would kick the door in, right? Obviously, Felicity was rooting for the home team, but a part of her was dying to know who was under the Bat’s mask. She had several educated guesses, informed by her own experiences.

On day seven, she was lying on her back on her plaid comforter, waking from a nap and meditating on the  _ Meditations _ when she saw the green light in the overhead camera stutter slightly, blink three times, and return. Felicity didn’t smile, but she did give the camera a quick wink.

“Thou art a little soul,” she said aloud, “bearing about a corpse.” Then she bolted to her feet and pounded on the front door of her little ARGUS Airbnb. “Sandra! Sandra D!”

Unamused, unruffled, Sandra stepped in. In one hand, she was holding menus for Greek, Italian, and Lebanese. In the other, a Sephora bag with Felicity’s outrageously priced wishlist from yesterday.

“That’s very kind of you, but I’m afraid it’s all business tonight. Tell your boss I’m ready to talk. I will take that little black and white bag there, though. Thank you, Sandra. You’ve been excellent.”

Felicity ran back to her Timbuk2 messenger bag. It was empty, as it had been when she arrived. She added the beauty goodies she’d charged to ARGUS’ black budget and felt absolutely no guilt about it. Then, she hit the kitchen, adding all the fancy dried fruit snacks and a small unopened bottle of Herradura. There was just enough room left for the workout clothes that ARGUS had provided.

Sure, there was still a good chance she’d die in the next forty-eight hours, but those medical school instincts were strong drivers of behavior. Never turn down free anything, even from the Empire. She secured the bag, pulled her hair back into a ponytail, and tied her sneakers. Then, on an impulse, she went back for Marcus Aurelius. He’d fallen open to Book VII:  _ Within is the fountain of good, and it will ever bubble up, if thou wilt ever dig _ . Marcus Aurelius was coming with her.

 

* * *

 

It was hard not to be impressed by Amanda Waller. She was cool, competent, and wore a skirsuit like armor. There was a way that she looked at you that made her look about four feet taller than she actually was. Felicity was beginning to regret wearing her t-shirt (KEEP TALKING - I’M DIAGNOSING YOU). But she had worn it on the way in; she would wear it on the way out. Waller did not look impressed.

“Dr. Smoak.”

“Director Waller.” Felicity looked around the faultlessly clean conference room that could have seated 200 easily. Very sleek, with about half the room devoted to seamless windows, looking out over a very distant city, not Starling. Portland, maybe? “So, this is the Prisoner’s Dilemma.”

“After a fashion,” Waller admitted, gesturing to two chairs and a small, steel table. They sat down, opposite one another.

“Either I help you, or you kill my uncle. And if he doesn’t help you, you’ll kill me.”

“That is the shape of things.”

“Then you know the best possible outcome for the prisoners is for neither of us to help you.”

“I only want your help eliminating an enemy of the United States.”

“So get a FISA warrant and a drone.”

“Problems that make it to my portfolio are never that simple, Dr. Smoak.”

“Then it’s something you need my uncle for.”

“That’s correct.”

“He’s very particular about the jobs that he takes. He doesn’t want this one. And my uncle isn’t cooperating, which is why you sent me those texts last week. You knew I’d come in.”

“I suspected you would.”

“No, I think you knew. I think you persuaded my uncle to give you that code. I’m just trying to figure out how. He’s a tough nut to crack. He took me to see Spider-Man 2 every weekend the summer it was in theaters, just to make me happy.”

“A nice Jewish orphan girl and her adoptive uncle? It wasn’t a mental leap to the Book of Esther.”

“It was more than that, though. You used the JPS translation. Everyone prefers the Etz Chayim, but you used JPS. That was the signal inside the signal. So what did you do to my uncle, Director?”

“Your hospital is a teaching hospital,” Waller said, after a pause.

It took Felicity a moment. “Oh my G-d.”

“Yes.”

“There are pictures--from the night of the Undertaking. There are pictures. From surgery?” Her stomach dropped so precipitously that she had to put a hand over her mouth.

“The Glades Memorial server still hosts some unredacted ones. Compound fractures and trepanation are surprisingly persuasive.”

“Oh.” Felicity pulled her hand away. “Oh, you stupid bitch. You have no idea.”

“Watch your tone, Doctor.”

“Or what--you’ll hit me with a car and drill a hole in my skull?” She stood and kicked back the chair. Then she held her left arm up like she was going to flex, but instead pointed to a small, new pink scar between her biceps and triceps. “Guess what this is?”

“No.” Waller stood and shook her head. “You were scanned at intake for devices.”

“Yep, and my left arm is so full of rods and screws, this bad boy never show registered. The battery was on a seventy-two hour signal delay, so there was no signal to read. Newsflash: I’m lo-jacked. I’ve been lo-jacked since I got here. I have friends with satellites. I have other friends who kill people with pointy sticks. And, oh yeah, my Uncle sometimes kills unkillable people with whatever’s handy!”

In a moment of cinematic perfection, the lights cut out.

“So, Amanda,” Felicity said, almost giddy. “Who do you think is going to get here first: the former murderer who just maims people now, or the guy who makes his murders look like accidents?”  
  


**Cambridge, 2007**

From time to time, Felicity was forcibly reminded that rules existed for reasons. She had forgotten, on this particular Saturday night, because of a truly epic pub crawl in celebration of some weird yankee thing she couldn’t remember. Paul Revere was probably involved. As it turned out, college was more tolerable when you were drink and you could make fun of yankees obsessed with Paul Revere.

The pub crawl went north and west, in the direction of Harvard. Then it went north to Tufts. But a wrong turn was made, which Felicity would have noticed had she not been quite so hammered at the time. But she was quite hammered, so it didn’t come to her attention until it was too late that she was in the wrong part of the Boston.

“We’re fuckin’ lost,” someone complained.

“No, we’re not. That’s Somerville High. We just have to head back up and west.”

“Somerville?” Felicity slurred, looking around for a sign that said she was somewhere else, anywhere else. But she wasn’t. She was here, said the sign that read Somerville High. Where she wasn’t supposed to be.

Winter Hill.

“You have to get me out of here,” she said, turning to the drunk yankee next to her. But the rest of the drunk teens had moved on, leaving behind only her.

  
  


**Undisclosed Location, November 2014**

So maybe Felicity had gotten a little ahead of herself. She could admit that, now that the barrel of Amanda Waller’s Sig Sauer was firmly pressed to her temple. There were footsteps in the darkness, echoing and re-echoing.

“I have a gun to Felicity Smoak’s head,” Amanda Waller announced.

“Hey, so,” Felicity said. “I don’t know which one of you is out there. But she’s not lying.”

Not so very far from her head, something sharp flew into the drywall at a high rate of speed.

“That doesn’t actually help me,” Felicity called back. “Could still be either of you at this point.”

“Nai’en zol men ir tachrichim!”

“Fetter,” she breathed. “Fetter!”

About ten feet away, something flew into the glass wall of the conference window and stuck there. No one would ever make fun of her exploding plunger arrow idea again. She should have ducked, but then there was the Sig. Instead, she screwed her eyes up tight and hoped that it was safety glass. It was, until Oliver Queen came barreling through it about ten seconds later.

“Everybody be really careful who you shoot,” she called out. Waller rewarded her by grabbing her left arm and twisting it behind her back. Felicity made a small pained noise and then bit her tongue.

“Amanda,” Oliver-the-Arrow said, “this is a mistake.”

And it was, on a couple levels. One, she obviously hadn’t prepared for Felicity to be crazy enough to experimentally microchip herself--you could never out-crazy a Smoak woman. Two, she didn’t understand Fetter at all. Three, she wildly underestimated how little Oliver Queen liked to share. It was such a bungle, that Felicity suddenly wondered if it wasn’t some kind of 3D chess feint. But she didn’t see how. What would make Amanda Waller so desperate?

The hand behind Felicity’s back felt something hot and sticky. And then her shoulders began to sting, too. Frak. Oliver’s little stunt had sent even the safety glass flying. Another excellent shirt ruined. This one had been a gift from a friend for their White Coat Ceremony. Another sentimental casualty to her extracurricular activities. Felicity was wondering if someone on etsy would make her another one when she realized they had evolved from Prisoner’s Dilemma to Mexican Standoff in the dark.

Amanda had a gun to her head, and couldn’t be trusted not to use it. Oliver surely had an arrow nocked, and could absolutely be trusted to use it, but only if Amanda made him. Fetter was still somewhere out there, probably armed with more than what he’d thrown after the lights went out. Whatever he weapon he had, he would definitely use it, as soon as practically possible. Felicity wondered if Amanda would actually shoot her and put the odds at 50/50.

“Let’s all try and remember that we’re on the same team,” Felicity said, voice shaking only slightly.

“Krikhn zolstu afn boykh!” Fetter was definitely yelling from a different part of the room now.

“Give me what I want,” Waller said, “and then you get your girl back.”

“What do you want?” Oliver asked.

“I want Eliot Joyner dead.”

“Who the hell is Eliot Joyner?” Felicity asked, exasperated.

“A decorated veteran,” Fetter replied. “And also a bastard. But I don’t kill men for being bastards.”

“You kill men because I own your contract,” Waller said. “He’s the reason I bought your contract out from the Bratva.”

“You didn’t read fine print? Not my problem,  пизда .”

Whatever that word was, Amanda Waller wasn’t called it very often. Angry, she shifted her weight to her toes to stand straighter. It was just a whisper of room, but Felicity very quickly dropped down and out of the way. That ankle couldn’t support cat stance for any amount of time, but it was okay, because she was already falling to the floor. She caught herself and rolled out of he way, just in time to see an arrow knock the gun from Waller’s hand and send it flying. Another arrow pinned her to the wall, passing through the meaty part of the shoulder just above the collarbone.

“Felicity!” two men yelled.

“I’m fine! Don’t shoot her!”

“I think I will shoot her,” Fetter said, just as the lights came back on. He was brandishing...a disassembled stapler and a tape gun.

“How?” Felicity asked.

“I would think of something.” Fetter Duvid looked older, but not so much older. Grayer, certainly, but not stooped or in any way diminished. He had a very handsome salt and pepper beard now.

“Please take the office supplies from my uncle.”

“Uncle?” Oliver asked.

“Uncle, this is...the Arrow.”

“Yes,” said Fetter Duvid. “This is also Oliver Queen, Bratva Captain, I think.” At their look of alarm, he added. “The shiksa gave me your jacket to read as well. She was preparing her Plan B.”

Felicity lunged for the stapler, which Fetter Duvid easily held away from her, being about six inches taller. Oliver plucked it from his hand as Fetter got a good look at her.

“You’re hurt, hinteleh,” he said, seeing that her back was bleeding.

“It’s nothing,” she said. “I’ve had much worse.” She had. Felicity burst into tears and threw herself at him.

“Shhh, shhh, shhh.” Fetter stroked her hair and held her arm, careful not to touch her where she might be hurt. He whispered to her in Yiddish and in Hebrew, things she understood and didn’t understand. Some Russian, that she didn’t understand at all. He hadn’t always spoken Russian so fluently. She tried to reply, but it got lost in the enormous, ugly, tears she was crying all over him. Finally, when the worst had past, and she was back to shallow and shuddering breaths, he tilted her head back. “You have grown up so beautiful.”

Felicity started crying again.

“No, no, you’re scaring your friends.”

“What?”

“For me, you would not have to stop crying. But they are both thinking about putting arrows in me, which would not make you happy.” Fetter produced a handkerchief and handed it to her.

“Right.” Felicity wiped her eyes and turned around to see Oliver and Roy looking very, very uncomfortable. Well, fuck them very much. It was her turn to lose her shit for once. “Guys, this is my uncle Duvid.”

“Smekhov,” Roy finished. “Are you...Elisheva?”

“Only when I have to be.” She pushed a hand through her hair. “Elisheva is just an escape hatch. A clean passport and some money attached. My family is a little...complicated.”

“We should go,” Fetter said, turning back to the pinned woman. “Miss Waller, I now consider our contract null and void. Any further attempts to contact me or my niece--”

“You’ll what?” Waller spat. “Come at me with a stapler again?”

“No,” Fetter said softly, putting his hands in his pockets, looking like a genial professor. “I will go to your step-brother in his sober-living house and while he sleeps I will dose him with enough Fentanyl to stop his breathing and he will die like just another junkie, sadly relapsed. Or I will go to your grandmother, who still lives in Chicago. She uses oxygen, no? Very flammable. Does she still smoke Reds, or has she quit?”

“God damn,” Roy whispered.

“Fetter,” Felicity tried.

“I’m not done!” For a moment, the professorial facade slipped, and there was the wolf. Then, just as easily, the professor went back. “There is also the Boys and Girls Club in Atlanta that you donate to. Not as anonymously as you would like, I think. It’s closer to the gas main than the city maps indicate. And the street behind is due for maintenance.” Fetter smiled. “Just because I can’t kill you doesn’t mean I can’t kill you, you know?”

Oliver looked at Felicity, questioning. Roy looked truly alarmed. She half-shrugged. She wasn’t going to try and interrupt again. He was making his point. Fetter leaned in close and said something inaudible, to which Waller showed exactly no response. Then Fetter turned back to them.

“Now can we go?” Roy asked, clearly ready to bolt.

“Now we can go,” Fetter affirmed.

Diggle was a quarter mile away, camouflaged with the van. He gave her a crushing hug and kissed the top of her hair. 

“You have no idea how glad I am to see you,” John said, and then wrapped her up again. “He was getting ready to go full Colonel Kurtz on me,” he whispered, just for her. “And who the hell is that guy?”

“John, this is my uncle.”

“Uncle?”

“We’ve met,” said Fetter. “In that Russian prison. Your doing, dear, I think?”

“Oh.” Felicity flushed. “Well, I couldn’t get eyes on you myself, too risky. But we were sending John in undercover anyway, so I had your cellmate transferred.” She half-shrugged again and said more quietly: “I needed to know if you were even still alive.”

“You were running an op inside our op?” John sounded suddenly stern. She should have known he wouldn’t approve it.

Felicity tilted her chin up and half-shrugged. Again.

“Wait, when did Digg go to prison?” Roy asked

 

* * *

 

Inviting Fetter down into the lair brought on excruciating waves of self-consciousness. She cared, deeply and desperately, about what he thought of her life. There hadn’t been any discussion, apart from a few shared looks, about whether or not to bring him here. He already knew Oliver’s identity. He knew Digg from prison, probably knew he had been there on behalf of ARGUS. The secrets that were left were negligible.

He looked around, taking it in, but not betraying any opinion by word or by glance. Felicity saw signs of her absence: tools not returned the way they should be, crumbs near her keyboard, the stolen gurney pushed askew in favor of a table full of maps--with the safehouse location circled in red. They must have moved on it before her meeting. What would it look like for Oliver to go full Colonel Kurtz?

“Let me take a look,” Digg said, holding his arm out like a waiter directing her to a table, rather than stitches.

“I’m sorry,” Oliver said. He and Roy were removing their quivers, somewhat reluctantly.

“I’m the one who thought an exploding suction cup was a good idea,” she pointed out. “And for the record, it worked.” Skeptical, she looked at her small work station. “Is any of this even sterile?”

“Yes, Doctor,” John said, smiling. “But I think this shirt is beyond repair.” He had just begun to cut away the cotton when Felicity realized someone else was there.

“Vos di genem iz dos?”

She jumped--Fetter was right behind her. She hadn’t heard him approach. Quickly, she turned her back away from him, which only pulled at the small cuts.

“Take it easy, man,” John said amiably.

“Entfern mir!” he demanded.

“They’re tattoos, Fetter!” 

“Shendlekh,” he pronounced, and slammed his hand onto the exam table.

“Hey!” Oliver yelled, picking his bow up again.

“It’s okay,” she interrupted softly, and slid off the table to face her uncle. Her back was to the boys. “First of all, this isn’t the shtetl, Tevye, so calm down. Second of all, you know I don’t like being yelled at, and you know why. And finally, you left me, okay, not the other way around. I did the best I could with the resources I had. So I am sorry, that after nine years alone, I have turned out to be such a disappointment to you!”

“You are correct,” Fetter said, suddenly and coolly. “My apologies. I will wait for you upstairs.”

Without being asked, John and Roy shadowed him up the stairs.

“I’m sorry,” Felicity said, words tumbling out. “It’s just--they’re taboo, you know. The tattoos. There’s a commandment, but it’s a gray area, kind of. But after the camps, you know, taboos. I just don’t think he was expecting to see his niece with a back full of ink. I was basically a kid the last time we saw each other and--”

“Hey,” Oliver said. “Relax. Take a deep breath." She did. "Good. Now start at the beginning.” He stepped behind her and began to clean the handful of shallow cuts. It didn’t feel like any of them had damaged the tattoo. They didn’t need stitches. He was just applying some butterfly bandages.

It was large, in a traditional American black and white style. The majority of her back was covered by a branch of flowering magnolia that lay slightly crossways. Wound through and around the branch was a healthy looking snake, beautifully detailed to show how it twisted. Its mouth was open slightly, but it had no fangs, no poison. The rod of Asclepius. 

“Well, when I said I didn’t have any family, I wasn’t lying. My parents are dead. It’s just dumb luck that I’m not dead, too.”

“How do you know?” he asked quietly, reaching for one of their spare t-shirts. Probably one of Roy’s, since it looked like it was made for a person and not a tank. Felicity, already somewhat numb, simply pulled the remains of her t-shirt over head and accepted the clean one.

“Because my father shot my mother and then he put a bullet in his brain and I’m the one who found the bodies. He was what they call a family annihilator. I was alone until Fetter came to get me out of foster care and I’ve been alone since he left me at college.”

“Hey.” He walked around to face her.  “Why didn’t you tell me about any of this?”

“Right,” she scoffed, looking down and away. “I’d just drop it into conversation that my parents died in a tawdry murder suicide in our kitchen. Oh, and also, I spent three years being passed from family to family because my uncle was killing people for money and wasn’t in cell range.”

“Felicity,” he said softly. “It feels like there’s scar tissue there, under the flowers.”

“I don’t owe you all my stories, Oliver.” She looked up and into his face. “Do we even know a fraction of what happened to you the five years you were away?”

There was a long silence while she hopped off the table, put on one of Digg’s enormous ARMY hoodies, and grabbed her bag of ARGUS party favors.

“Don’t worry about Waller,” Oliver said at last.

“Oh, I won’t.” Her tone was dry. “Fetter doesn’t bluff. She knows that now.”

“Are you okay?”

“I guess so. It’s just...families, you know?”

“I have some experience with that. And you learn not to judge.”

“Right.”

“Felicity,” he said as she reached the bottom of the stairs. “I want you to know that whatever experiences that you had to go through… I’m glad that you became the person that you are today. You know how I feel about her.”

“Do I?” she asked and immediately castigated herself for asking. “I should head out.” Then she took the stairs two at a time until she was upstairs and outside the club in the clean night air, where Fetter and Diggle were waiting with one of the few Queen family cars that hadn’t been seized.

Fetter held out his hand and she took it, holding it all the way to the hotel downtown he had selected. This was a relief, since if he stayed with her, she was going to end up sleeping on the papasan chair, and that couldn’t end well. Before they got out of the car, Diggle cave her a questioning look and she smiled back, reassuring him. Felicity didn’t know what she’d done to deserve a friend like him, but she thanked her lucky stars every day.

At the front desk, her uncle produced a credit card that she did not look at very closely. Plausible deniability, that was the name of the game. The hotel was nice, but not too nice. Comfortable, clean, the kind of place that a mid-level manager would stay. He sighed in relief when they reached the room and he could sit down on one of the two double beds. Felicity sat across, facing him.

“I do apologize,” he said seriously. “I spoke out of turn earlier.”

“It’s okay.” Felicity crossed her ankles, but didn’t take her bag off. “It’s not like it was a normal family reunion.”

“No.” Fetter smiled. “And I haven’t said it yet, but I am so proud that you are a doctor.”

She looked down, tears pricking her eyes.

“I always knew you were brilliant. And tough. But this, this is a great accomplishment. And an honor to the family.”

“Fetter…”

“I only speak the truth.” He held up his hands. “And the rest of it, the tattoo and the masked men, you can tell me when you are ready.”

“What if I’m never ready?”

“Well. We can always talk about the weather.”

Felicity snorted.

“I think I will go back to Vegas and take work there--honest work. Or as honest as I can get.”

“I’d like that.” She clasped her hands together. “I’d like to have someone to visit for holidays.”

“Me, too.”

  
  


**Cambridge, 2007**

“All done,” Trish said, pushing her chair away from the table and pulling her black gloves off with satisfaction. “You’re a real trooper.”

Felicity did not feel like a trooper. She felt like she’d been worked over with a cheese grater. Her scalp still tingled slightly from the five hours she’d spent at the salon earlier in the day, lifting her natural brown hair to platinum. She was officially emerging from her mousy chrysalis to full blown Suicide Girl.

“Come take a look.” Trish was beautiful, about forty, and pierced everywhere a woman could be visibly pierced. She had full sleeve tattoos, mostly botanical. She held out a hand, helping Felicity to her feet while she held the small table drape over her front. Felicity turned her back to the full length mirror and examined it in a smaller handheld one. Trish was really good. The magnolias were delicate, the snake appropriately sinuous.

Felicity loved it. She hated that she needed it. But she loved it. There were some things that you couldn’t hide. But there were some things that you could. Her back was a statement and a misdirection and an edict. 

“This is me now,” she declared.

“Fucking A,” Trish said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Murder Inc. was a real thing, the enforcement arm of the Syndicate of mobs on the East Coast in the wild days before RICO laws. I cannot claim to be very well informed about it, except that as soon as someone mentions fellow members of my tribe (Jews--Jews are the tribe) in Vegas, I can't help but think about Bugsy Siegel and the Flamingo and the Jewish mob and obviously things snowballed from there.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey can I ask you a question?”
> 
> “Of course.” Felicity swung her computer chair around. Roy looked hollowed out, with his hands shoved in his pockets the way he had when they’d first met, like it was some kind of statement he was making. “I’m trying to learn JAVA, but it’s just making me want to drink bleach.”

_ Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only at night. _

-Edgar Allen Poe

 

**Starling, 2014**

“Hey can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.” Felicity swung her computer chair around. Roy looked hollowed out, with his hands shoved in his pockets the way he had when they’d first met, like it was some kind of statement he was making. “I’m trying to learn JAVA, but it’s just making me want to drink bleach.”

“I know the clinic isn’t open yet, but you can still do blood tests right?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Roy, do you have the clap?” She knew he hadn’t been with Thea, or at least she thought she knew, but Thea was only one person in a city of a couple hundred thousand. Based on her patient population, about one in three of those people was in the process of acquiring gonorrhea at any moment.

“No, I don’t have the clap,” he objected. “I don’t think. Would I know?”

“Nope. And now we’re definitely running an STD panel.” 

“No, I want you to test me for Mirakuru.”

“I don’t need to.” Felicity looked at him directly. “The cure worked. I tested you before, during, and after, Roy.”

“Could you just…” He looked miserable and scared and she was reminded again of what he had been like when they first met: sick, thin, angry.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Totally. I’m fine. I just...can’t sleep.”

“Alright. Let’s do the test.”

It took about fifteen minutes, counting the time it took to draw blood. Roy paced most of the time. Felicity pretended to learn JAVA and not be worried about him.

“I’m clean?”

“Not even the clap. We will be talking about your cholesterol later, though.”

“Oh thank God.”

“Roy, you knew you didn’t have the clap. Now I know you don’t have the clap. We both knew you didn’t have Mirakuru in you. What is going on?”

“It’s stupid.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

“The reason I haven’t been sleeping is cause I’ve been having dreams--and not normal ones. It was like I was remembering the time I was out, you know?” Oh, did she ever know.

“What do you remember”

“Nothing much. Just a feeling, a feeling of being...not me. And being strong and out of control But here’s the thing. In those dreams, I killed Sara.”

“But you didn’t.”  _ You killed a cop instead _ .

“The dreams didn’t feel like dreams, Felicity. They felt like memories. I actually remember throwing arrows into her. Crazy, right?”

“Not so crazy,” Felicity said carefully. “I’m not a sleep doctor or a neurologist or a psychiatrist. But dreams serve a few important functions. One is wish fulfilment. Another one is kind of processing. Sometimes bad memories get buried until your brain decides you’re ready to see them, and then you might dream them. Like, digesting things that have happened to you.”

“Like PTSD.”

“Like PTSD. But the things that you see when you dream may not be exactly the way they happened. So you might dream that you killed her, but it might be about...something else you did while you were out, or even something from years ago.”

“That’s actually not very comforting.”

“Roy, listen to me. I tested you. I monitored every one of your bodily functions, okay, including your kidneys, via catheter. Which you ripped right out when you blacked in--oh yeah--let me tell you, that’s gonna stay with me for a while.”

“Oh my God.” He covered his eyes with a hand.

“See? There’s some shit you weren’t ready to deal with. But hey, you don’t have the clap!”

“I can’t believe you told me that. I can’t believe I did that. Why did you tell me that?”

“Listen, I want to talk more about this. The dreams, not the catheter. Unless you think it might have done some damage?”

“Stop, please, God. Stop.”

“Seriously, Roy, do you want something to help you sleep?”

“No,” he said, looking tired. “I just want to remember what I did. I feel like I’m trying to. ”

“I think you are.” She placed her hands on the counter. “Roy, is it okay if I tell Oliver? Just about the dream.”

“Why?”

“He’s working really hard at this mentor thing, as you’ve probably noticed. I think he’d want to know.  But I won’t say anything if you don’t want me to.”

“He’s going to hate me.”

“No, Roy, listen to me. Oliver will hate the person who killed Sara. He will never hate you.”

“Okay. You can tell him." He turned to leave, and she barely heard him add: "But he’s still gonna hate me.”

 

* * *

 

Oliver met her in her favorite stairwell at the hospital. Technically, he appeared in the hallway, caught her by the elbow of her white coat, and dragged her in there with no ceremony whatsoever.

“Are you okay?” he asked at once, searching her face.

“What? I’m fine.”

“Your text sounded worried.”

“I am worried, but not about me.” She craned her neck to make sure they were alone. “I think Roy’s remembering.”

“Remembering what?

“What do you think?”

“How? You said he wouldn’t.”

“I said I hoped he wouldn’t. And I did.” She sighed. “It’s why he’s not sleeping. He’s dreaming.”

“About the officer?”

“No. Yes. Maybe.” She put her hand to her forehead. “Look, I don’t think I’m telling anything you don’t know about dreams and trauma. But there comes a point at which the brain decides that you’re safe now, and so it’s safe for you to start remembering bad things. The good news is, you’re a great mentor and Roy feels safe. The bad news is, Roy’s brain has decided that he’s safe, too.”

“This is...terrible timing.”

“I know.”

“Ted Grant and Laurel and--”

“I  _ know _ .” G-d, he was exasperating today.

“We have to keep this quiet. For now.”

“That’s why we’re on the secret squirrel stairs and not in the foundry.”

Her phone buzzed, making her jump. He reached out and put a hand on her shoulder to steady her.

“Sorry. I have to go. I have a meeting with Palmer.” She turned away, walked up two stairs, and then turned back. “He’s terrified you’ll leave him, you know.” Then she jogged up to change into street clothes for the bike ride to the Robert Queen Memorial Clinic.

 

* * *

 

It was a little over a month until the solstice, and darkness was falling earlier on Starling. This was her least favorite part of the year. Holidays were always a nightmare. Everyone invited her places that she didn’t want to go. Thanksgiving was for families that knew how to fight companionably while drinking and watching football. Felicity was terrified of familial fighting. Christmas was for the goyim who, for the most part, didn’t actually take many of their Messiah’s teachings to heart. Hanukkah was the bump of adrenaline she needed to get her over the hump to New Year’s.

This year, she’d at least have Fetter. Did they make Hanukkah greeting cards? Surely someone did. Maybe she’d make one for him by hand. She had great motor skills, but no artistic ability, so it would probably result in something hilarious. For now, though, it was dark and cold and rainy. The last of the daylight was going when she arrived at the construction site. Palmer was there and, bless him, carrying a large travel mug of something hot for her.

“Dr. Smoak!” he waved cheerily. He might as well be wearing a sign advertising his cheeriness and, therefore, his wealth. It was a miracle indeed that he hadn’t been mugged ten times over. It helped that he was about seven feet tall with the mien of a labradoodle puppy. You’d have been a pretty heartless bastard to assault a 200 pound labradoodle.

The drink turned out to be the best cocoa she’d ever tasted. While she savored the flavor and the warmth in her hands, Palmer monologued about the status of the building renovations. From what she could understand, over the cocoa, it was in pretty good shape, having survived several natural earthquakes in the last century. Demo had been done and the building was ready for a walkthrough.

“It looks so much bigger--why does it look so much bigger?”

“No more drop ceilings!” He pointed up. “We’re going to keep it as open as possible, once we enclose the ductwork, that is. The HVAC will be state of the art, of course. We’re installing a UV system that’s not even in the hospitals yet. The cabinets will be flush with the ceiling, to maximize storage and minimize dust. We can do away with the storage closet, which means that we can expand the exam room and make the bathroom ADA compliant.”

“When do we open?” she asked.

“You don’t want to hear about the plumbing?” he asked, crestfallen. “I have an on demand hot water heater on demand.”

“When do we open, Palmer?”

“One month, maybe two.”

“Flu season has already started. Do you have any idea how many immunocompromised people live around here? Do you have any idea how few of the herd got flu shots?”

“To be fair, there was that small debacle with the vertigo.”

“Don’t remind me." Her gag reflex kicked in, and she fought not to dry heave against that memory. "What I mean, Palmer--”

“Time is of the essence. I understand. Would it be alright if we finished the clinic before the apartment above?”

“That would be better, yes.”

“Then I’ll instruct the contractors to do so, Dr. Smoak.”

“Sure. Oh, and Palmer? You might want to bring some security with you next time.”

“I don’t need it.”

“I know. I know you’re a big guy, but--”

“No, no, Felicity. I don’t need security, because they know I’m with you.”

She didn’t know what to say to that.

“Do you know, this little old lady, covered in cat hair, came up to me yesterday and gave me quite the lecture.”

“Miss Albina.”

“Yeah, I was not expecting to hear that kind of language from her. I don’t know who she thought I was, but she didn’t let up until she had my solemn vow that I wasn’t demolishing the clinic, quite the opposite, and that I would be bringing you back to the neighborhood. Then she brought me a tin of Russian tea cakes that were truly scrumptious.”

“If you got tea cakes out of it, you’re in.”

“They’ve missed you around here.”

 

* * *

 

FETTER: Hello, Felicity, this is your Uncle.

Hi!

I know! You’re in my phone!

FETTER: And you are in my phone.

FETTER: Why is your picture Princess Leia giving me the finger?

Because Carrie Fisher is an angel sent from heaven to bless us with her light.

FETTER: How is your Wednesday?

Oh, you know.

Terrible.

But not bad.

I was just thinking about how when I couldn’t sleep, we would stay up and watch MASH.

FETTER: You type very fast for a phone.

I thought that being a doctor would be more like that.

Saving lives. And then still being able to laugh after.

Do you think I’m doing the right thing with my life?

FETTER: All those doctors drank too much.

 

* * *

 

Felicity looked down at her caller ID, not quite believing what she was seeing.

“It’s Laurel,” she said.

“Put her on speaker.”

“I hated you so much for that…” the voice was tinny and somewhat faded by background car noises.

“That voice,” Oliver said. That’s him.”

“Hang on, I’m tracking her cell now. North on 17, doing about 45.”

“Keep that line open.”

If she never heard Oliver fall off his bike again, it would be too soon. Her mind, always ready to make the worst of things, immediately jumped ahead to a scene where she would have to explain to Thea that her brother was a former murderous vigilante and brain dead and would she please sign this organ donation release form thanks very much. It wasn’t until Felicity heard Oliver growl in frustration that she released the breath she was holding. Then Roy was on the scene and, miracle of miracles, he remembered to turn his comm on. 

“Don’t abandon me,” he said to Oliver.

“Never.”

Felicity folded her arms on the desk and put her head down on them. He hadn’t killed Sara and he’d remember that soon. But he had killed, in cold blood, and he’d remember that too. It wouldn’t matter how drugged up he was at the time, not to him.  Roy’s heart was going to break, and they were going to be the ones to break it.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There were a lot of things Oracle had taught her. One of the first was how to put out police band radio google alerts. Felicity received text messages any time the Hood or Arrow or Vigilante was mentioned. She was also pinged for every member of their immediate circle, and a few not-so immediate members. If anyone ever found out just how many people Felicity Smoak was watching over, well, they’d have to rewrite stalker laws in every state.

_Hope is a function of struggle._

-Brené Brown

  


**Starling, 2014**

There were a lot of things Oracle had taught her. One of the first was how to put out police band radio google alerts. Felicity received text messages any time the Hood or Arrow or Vigilante was mentioned. She was also pinged for every member of their immediate circle, and a few not-so immediate members. If anyone ever found out just how many people Felicity Smoak was watching over, well, they’d have to rewrite stalker laws in every state.

The alerts came in the basic traffic light colors: green (suspect claims the Arrow did it), yellow (Arrow spotted exiting the Glades), and red (Laurel Lance’s plate number run for suspected DUI). The interns thought she was in a long distance relationship with someone. Intern B had also suggested that she might be a cam girl, but that was pure projection on his part. There was a fourth alert, that involved a klaxon like alarm, and it had never gone off at work. Until now.

It was good luck that she was only holding charts and not, say, a bunch of sharps when the Holy Fucking Shit alarm went off.

“Holy fucking shit!” she said, dropping everything and reaching for her phone.

“Are you okay?” Intern B asked, clearly angling to get a better look at the screen.

“Pick these up,” she snapped, unlocking the screen.

1054 POSSIBLE DEAD BODY -- GREEN LEATHER SUIT -- PATROL CAR 52 DISPATCHED

Bile rose up in the back of her mouth. She shoved the phone back into her pocket, bypassed the secret squirrel stairwell, and headed straight for the emergency exit with the broken alarm, the one all the nurses used to sneak out for cigarettes. Felicity almost flattened two of them, smoking menthols, as she barreled out to vomit on the asphalt patch just beyond them.

“Oh shit,” one of them said.

“Was it an Ichabod?” the other one asked, putting her cigarette out under her shoe.

“No,” Felicity said, spitting. “Just some bad seafood.”

“Take your time,” the first one said. “You look like you’re gonna DFO.”

“DFO?”

“Done fall over.”

“Ha,” Felicity said, and pulled the phone out. The two nurses headed back inside, the friendly mood clearly broken by the puking resident. She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand and dialed.

It rang. And rang. And rang.

She was getting ready to puke again when he picked up.

“Go,” Oliver said.

“Oh fuck,” she gasped and sat down hard on the ground.

“Felicity? Felicity!”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“What’s wrong?”

“What?”

“Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine.” She pushed the heel of her hand into her forehead.

“You sound...not fine.”

“There’s a dead body in a green leather Arrow suit. Warehouse district, behind the Big Lots in Creekland. Lance is en route.”

“Felicity--”

“I have to go.”

 

* * *

 

Nothing aggravated a vigilante hangover like being summoned to QC just in time to see its name changed to Palmer Technologies. Felicity stood at the back of the room, arms crossed, as Palmer made a spinny motion with his finger while flashbulbs went off. She’d never been so disappointed to be right. He had absolutely slapped his own name on the side of the building at the first opportunity. It was safe to say she was already in A Mood when Jerry showed her into Palmer’s private suite.

Where he was working a salmon ladder.

“Where you people even buy these things?” she asked, donkey-kicking the door shut behind her.

“I built this one for fun! You know Richard Branson works out twice a day?”

“Of course you did. And Richard Branson is a pig.” There had been an incident while she was lifeguarding at a pool in Vegas that very nearly ended with Fetter killing one of the wealthiest men on earth.

“I thought he was pretty nice.”

“Why am I here, Palmer?”

“He said it gives--”

“Drop it. Drop it, Palmer!”

He let go of the rung.

“Good boy,” she muttered while he toweled himself off and put on a shirt.

“Are you free for dinner tomorrow night?”

“What?”

“Are you free for dinner tomorrow night?”

“No, I heard you. I just didn’t believe you. Please tell me you didn’t invite me down here to witness your press conference where you changed the name of my friend’s company thinking that would be put me in a good enough mood to accept an invitation to dinner with you.”

“I keep forgetting you’re friends with Oliver Queen.”

“Yeah, you're not the only one.”

“The dinner is with the CEO and wife of a Nevada mining concern. They own mineral rights that are essential for a project I’m working on called cogeneration. I’m hoping to leverage your shared experiences in Silver State to persuade him.”

“First of all, I assure you, that I have exactly zero shared experiences with the CEO of a mining _concern_. Second of all, this is me. My best self. My most dinner appropriate incarnation.” She gestured at her scrubs, sneakers, and Happy Challah Days hoodie. “Thirdly, I would probably have one glass of wine and start ranting about how corporate profits are stolen wages.”

“You don’t want to know what cogeneration is?”

Felicity huffed out a breath. “Of course I want to know what cogeneration is!” She threw her hands up. “But I’m hungry, I’m tired, and I had to call TOD on a kid tonight and that always pisses me off.”

“Let’s get breakfast.” Palmer pressed a button and Jerry appeared. “Jerry, we’re going to need breakfast. A full spread.”

“No peanuts,” she said automatically.

“No peanuts at all, Jerry.”

“Yes, sir.”

The breakfast was magnificent, a huge cart of baked goods and two French presses, and Jerry wheeled it in with no more flair than a file box from storage. The evil empire had a chef and that chef deserved a raise.

“This is amazing,” she said around a mouthful of flaking croissant. “It’s so good. Why is it so good?”

“Those are handmade downstairs every morning by Madame Sidonie. I lured her away with a house on Queen Anne Hill with 360 views of the ocean. She insists on using only French flour and butter.”

“You’re not having any?”

“It’s not my cheat day.”

“You stole a French chef and you don’t eat her croissants five times a day?”

“Make sure you try one of the chouquettes. Dip it in the coffee. Sidonie gets that from France, too. Roasts it downstairs.”

Felicity moaned with pleasure.

“Now let’s talk about dinner.”

“Not now, Palmer. I’m meditating.”

To his credit, the man was smart enough to shut up long enough for Felicity to finish her croissant, several chouquettes and a cup of coffee. Feeling much less belligerent, she refilled her coffee and sat back.

“Speak,” she said. And Palmer did. Much to her chagrin, cogeneration sounded awesome. She couldn’t follow all of the details, but the basic principles hit home. “What do I have to do?”

“Keep me from becoming so bored that I slice my wrists open with a butter knife.”

“A butter knife’s never going to do the job.”

“Steak knife?”

“Don’t you have like...dozens of other women you could ask to do this.”

“Hundreds, actually. But you’re the one I bought this dress for.” He stood up, reached into a nearby cabinet, and produced the most perfect little black dress in the world. It had a high neck and cap sleeves of embellished black lace. The short hem was similarly embellished and would show a delectable length of leg.

“Oh. My. G-d.”

“It’s Marchesa. It went down the runway about two months ago, but I convinced Georgina and Keren to--”

“You’re ruining this for me.” It even felt expensive. It would cover all of her tattoo, if not her scars from the Undertaking. But those scars were honorably acquired. She didn’t feel bad about them at all. _Stop. Are you really going to take this dress?_ “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Being nice to me. Not just nice. This is… Are you compensating for something? Are you trying to buy my...favors? What is the deal?”

“Did you know that CNRI is reopening?”

“What?”

“CNRI is reopening. Anastasia Lanka has agreed to return and run it.”

“No shit.”

“It’s not just you. It’s not being nice.”

“This is about her,” Felicity realized aloud. Palmer carried on.

“And I wanted to invite you to dinner because the guests are from Las Vegas, where you are also from. And because I hate doing these things alone.”  


* * *

 

I NEED YOU THIS IS NOT A DRILL

New phone who dis.

SIN.

Seriously I just popped my sim card into this phone like a day ago, so…

IT’S YOUR BOSS.

YOUR ONCE AND FUTURE BOSS.

Smoak! What’s good?

I need your expertise.

I thought you were into boys, but I’m always willing to take time for a new team member.

SIN.

I HAVE TO GO A DINNER TOMORROW. A FANCY DINNER.

Fancy like...real tablecloths?

FANCY LIKE I’M HOLDING A MARCHESA DRESS IN MY HANDS.

A REAL MARCHESA DRESS.

Goddam.

What are you going to do?

Be at my place at six tomorrow.

I’ll text you a list of what I’ll need.

Mostly beer.

But also some hair shit.

 

* * *

 

“I need 100% of your focus on finding Gravano.”

“And you will have it, just not tonight.”

“Why?”

“Palmer invited me to dinner.” Felicity smiled, thinking of the dress. “Business dinner,” she added, when he looked like...that.

“Oh.”

“Is that...okay?” Felicity felt herself choke on her own words. _Say something. Be mad. Tell me I can’t. Clear everything off this table and rip your shirt open and make violent love to me. Say something, Oliver_.

“Do what you want.”  

It was a tone so mild, he might as well have been asking her to pick a place for lunch. She was lunch level.

 

* * *

 

“Hey,” Digg said, letting himself into the framed out apartment above the Queen Clinic.

“Hey,” Felicity said, looking up from her laptop. She was sitting on the unpolished hardwood floor, leaning against the studs, typing with fingerless gloves. Her breath fogged in the air. “On a scale from one to Deathstroke, how crazy does this look?”

“Hmm…” He took a look around. “Maybe a five. Aren’t you cold?”

“Freezing. But I think better here. It’s quiet.”

“You’ll catch your death.” He frowned, rubbing his hands together.

“Aww.” She smiled. “That’s sweet. But it’s not actually how it works. Besides, I’ll be out of here in ten minutes. I have to get ready for dinner.”

“Yeah...your work dinner. You and Palmer. Doesn’t seem that platonic.”

“Why, because he acknowledges my existence in the daytime and the night?”

“You know it’s got Oliver twisted up in knots.”

“Oh, John.” She closed the laptop and rose to her feet. “Do not even think about trying to make me feel responsible for Oliver’s knots. He made his choice.”

“And we both know that it was the wrong choice.”

“No, we don’t,” she slipped it into her Timbuk2. “I am not playing guess-the-internal-monologue for the rest of my natural love life. At some point, I have to take people at their word. And his words were, and I quote: ‘Do what you want.’”

John grimaced.

“Yeah.”

“I mean, obviously, the man is not great at expressing himself. He would rather go ten rounds with the League of Assassins than say he has feelings for you.”

“Again.”

“What?”

“...would rather go ten rounds than say he has feelings for me...again.”

“Again?”

“He never told you.” Felicity shook her head and looked up at the naked ceiling beams. “Remember the night we caught Slade? And I jammed his neck full of Mirakuru cure? You never wondered how I got that close?”

“He said he laid a trap.”

“Yeah, well, the trap was he walked me in front of Slade’s hidden cameras at the Queen Mansion and said he loved me, before handing me a syringe and leaving me there.”

“Jesus.”

“I’m having the craziest flashback to two years ago when I walked up like twenty flights of stairs to visit you in your apartment and you said,” Felicity cleared her throat and dropped her voice, “Oliver and I don’t need a relationship counselor.” She waited, but he said nothing. “Anyway, I gotta go. There’s a baby goth at my house ready to fix my face and jack my hair up.”

“Sin does hair?”

“Better than anyone in this town. Oh, and John? Next week, I want you to teach me how to do the salmon ladder.”

 

* * *

 

I hope you enjoy your dinner.

Thank you.

I just thought you should know that Oliver’s found the target’s shrink.

He’s tracking her back to her office.

Where he will intimidate her into violating privilege.

JOHN.

NO.

JOHN NO.

This is what happens when you take the night off.

But have fun.

Well at least he’s seeing a psychiatrist.

 

* * *

 

She was relieved that Ray was a driving a vehicle neither too high nor too low for her to navigate with her hemline. Which was, despite her own rather petite stature, short enough to leave very little to the imagination. He got out of the car and walked around to open the door for her, where he stopped cold.

“Wow. You are ridiculous.” Palmer looked properly dumbstruck, which was probably an indicator of her day-to-day appearance rather than her current one. “Which I mean in a good way. That’s...not creepy. You look beautiful.”

“It’s the dress. And like eight hours of grooming. And the dress, which is very nice.”

“The dress is actually missing something.” Roy held out a small velvet case.

“Oh, no, you are not Pretty Womaning me.”

“What?”

“Put those earrings back, Palmer. Or so help me, I will go back upstairs, and you will have to explain to Sin why her handiwork won’t be seen in public.”

“How do you know they’re earrings?”

“Because this isn’t a necklace dress. Any salesperson would have told you that.”

“That’s...true. Do you want to even see the earrings?”

“I will go back. And then my stylist will come down those stairs and key your car.”

“On that note, you look beautiful, allow me to get this door.”

 

* * *

 

The restaurant was easily the fanciest place Felicity had ever been in without Oliver. How much food could she decorously eat at this dinner? If these people turned out to be appetizers-as-entrees monsters, she wouldn’t be held responsible for her actions.

“Mr. Gardner. Ray Palmer.” He was warm, gregarious, confident. A labradoodle trained.

“Good,” Gardner said, shaking hands. He was wearing a bespoke shirt, broad tie, and his wife was wearing a thousand dollar St. John suit that still managed to be frumpy. No, these were definitely not her Nevada people.

“Mrs. Gardner, this is Dr. Smoak. She’s a resident at Palmer Health’s flagship hospital and heading up an outreach clinic for us that will be open by Christmas.”

“Yes,” Felicity said giddily. “The flagship hospital.” No wonder so many of her maintenance requests had been filled lately.

“Thank you for sitting down with us tonight.”

“Well, I’m always happy to enjoy a good meal. And I’m very impressed with your background. But I have no plans of selling my Nevada holding.”

“The night is still young,” Palmer said. “Shall we sit down? We have a lot to discuss.”

“As you said, the night is young. But I don’t like to talk business until at least the entree.”

Thank G-d. They were entree people. Palmer looked longingly at his butter knife. Felicity’s phone buzzed. John. She excused herself and slid away from the table, casting longing looks at the menu.

“You are interrupting dinner with the man who is reopening my clinic at no charge. I hope one of you is dying.”

 

* * *

 

“Obviously the progeneration of certain minerals can’t be accounted for by simple elemental cohesion”

“I am so sorry. I’m not on call, but there is a particular difficult patient of mine on the floor tonight, and they paged me.”

“I had to have them take the steak knives away.”

“Mr. Gardner, did Ray have a chance to tell you about his plans for your mineral deposits in Nevada?”

“Uh, no, Miss Smoak. I’m not interested in selling.”

“Please.” She bared her teeth. An epic internal struggle ensued.

_Hold it together. He wants to call you Miss, he can call you Miss. This isn’t your dinner. It’s Palmer’s dinner. You are a guest. Rise above this. You’re a betterson. You’re a bigger person. No you’re not. Make eat it. You take him for all he’s worth. It’s what Fetter would do._

“Call me Felicity.”   _Yes. Good. Bilk this dusty motherfucker and his hausfrau. Time to turn the charm up to 11._ “And I don’t blame you for not wanting to sell Ray your mine. Because you don’t what his plans are.” She turned on a thousand watt smile from out of nowhere and gazed at a bemused Palmer. “The thing about Ray is...he’s not a businessman. Businessmen make deals. They make money.”

_And Ray Palmer keeps giving shit to me for free. All the best lies contain a kernel of truth._

“What Ray is...is something else entirely. Ray isn’t interested in making money. He is interested in making the world a better place. So if Ray wants your mine, believe me, it’s because he’s going to put it to the kind of use that’s going to make you proud.”

And that was when her phone rang again.

“Your patient?” Mrs. Gardner asked drily.

“Yes. If he’s not dead yet,” she announced, “I promise you that he will be soon.”

 

* * *

 

“Dig, you there?”

“And me. Me being Felicity.”

“What’s your twenty?” Digg asked.

“Subway stop downtown.”

“Why did Cutter have you meet her there?”

“Because this is where I saved her."

Felicity winced. This had better be worth leaving dinner for. Or so help her, someone was going to be sorry.

“Not your lover,” Oliver said. _Blech._ That word. “I’m here to help you because you’re not well...I spoke to her…”

Felicity glared at Digg who shrugged.

“Well I’m not the man that you think I am. I understand that you’re hurting. And I know what it’s like to want someone, but not be able to be with them. How you wish things could be different, but they can’t. I can’t be with you. I can’t be with anyone. I have to be alone.”

Felicity stood up and kicked her desk chair back under.

“Felicity--”

“Shove it,” she snapped, and climbed the stairs and let the door slam shut behind her. The alley behind Verdant was cold and damp. She’d remembered her fancy little clutch, but not Sin’s stolen wrap. Cursing everyone, especially her own self, she ordered an Uber and waited, hugging her elbows.

Felicity decided right then that she should get a dog. More than one shrink had suggested it to her. She’d seen one of them, in D.O. school, after the dreams had become particularly bad. He’d helped, and so she didn’t laugh him off his desk chair when he suggested it.

“Why?” she’d asked, politely skeptical.

“Dogs are good practice for loving, and being loved,” he’d said.

She watched dogs more closely after that. They were always, always, always so happy to see their owners. Dogs jumped up and down and smiled and their tongues fell outside their mouths. _It’s you! It’s my person! You’re mine! You picked me! I picked you!_

That would be nice, Felicity thought. What would it be like be someone’s person? To have someone pick you, every day?

“Hello!” the Uber driver hollered at her, from about fifteen feet away.

“Sorry,” she said and pushed the self-pity aside at least until she could get home. She climbed into the back of the towncar. It smelled like chilly leather and other people’s good times.

“Just you?” he asked, checking the street for anyone else who might be stumbling out of Verdant.

“Just me.”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course I have a picture of the dress. Come on, now. Just imagine it without the crazy tights/leggings situation.
> 
> https://www.vogue.com/fashion-shows/fall-2014-ready-to-wear/marchesa/slideshow/collection#16


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look. Listen. Here's the thing: I am not a doctor, but I have watched a lot of medical TV so keep that in mind.

_ If everything seems under control, you’re not going fast enough _ .

-Mario Andretti

 

**Central City, 2014**

This was great. There was nothing to help you with your inappropriate and confused feelings like a road trip, confined for hours in a small space with the object of your inappropriate and confused feelings. And unrequited, she couldn’t forget unrequited. She lay down across the backseat of Digg’s old 4-Runner and closed her eyes.

“You okay?” he asked, spotting her in the rear view mirror.

“Just sleepy.”

“Keep your seatbelt on,” Oliver said.

Both she and John looked at him.

“We’re still in a moving vehicle.”

“Don’t worry, Dad.” She closed her eyes and smirked.

John snorted and Oliver sighed, fundamentally aggrieved by the trip. Felicity wasn’t really tired, but the ambient road noise lulled her into an easy doze, call room sleep. 

“She heard,” John said.

“Hm?”

“What you said to Cutter. About being alone? She heard.”

There was a pause.

“She got up and left, Oliver, royally pissed. She doesn’t want to be alone.”

Another pause.

“You’ve got to tell her, man. Before it’s too late.”

 

* * *

 

Central City seemed a little bit like Disneyland to her. She’d never been, but this was what it looked like on commercials: sunny, cheerful, clean. It might as well be on a different planet. It seemed pretty fun, too, until Barry showed up and whisked her away to STAR labs without warning and her flannel button up caught fire.

Which was how she ended up topless in front of the whole crew in one of her better, but rather sheer, bras.

“I’m sorry!” Barry apologized.

“It had to be the lace.” She closed her eyes and hoped for a hole to swallow her.

“You guys remember Felicity?” Barry tried for genial.

“Oh, I’ll always remember this.” Cisco was looking at her with more interest than he’d ever shown before. “Nice tat.”

“Hi, Felicity.” Caitlin, may her blessings ever increase, rushed forward with a STAR labs sweatshirt in hand. “What brings you back to Central City?”

“Oh, you know. Boomerang wielding murderers. The usual.”

* * *

 

 

“Miss Smoak, a word, if you please.” 

“It’s Doctor,” she corrected automatically, meeting Well’s eyes. And her gut told her not to follow this man anywhere. Not a well-lit restaurant, not an alley, not even a hallway at STAR labs. It was the part of her gut that kept the PPK next to her bed and a knife taped to the bottom of her papasan chair.

“Doctor Smoak, my apologies.”

She followed him, crossing her arms and planting her feet when his chair stopped.

“Felicity, I like to surround my team with known quantities.That is because I find the unknown to be toxic, dangerous. The Arrow is unknown.”

“Not to me,” she said. “And while I’m here, he’s not dangerous to you either.”

“Well, of that, I have little doubt. And yet, I find myself with a conundrum. How can I completely trust a man when I don’t even know his name? So I was hoping, Doctor Smoak, that you could help me trust him. Who is he under the hood?”

Felicity just smiled, and not a warm one either.

“Of course. I’ll figure it out on my own.”

She felt sick, knowing he probably would. The feeling lasted until Barry returned, with a whoosh and a blur of red.

“Hey,” she said, and narrowed her eyes at him. “He went ahead and shot you, didn’t he.”

“You knew he was going to shoot me?”

“Who do you think talked him down to just two arrows? You should never have told him about your accelerated cellular regeneration.”

“Felicity!”

“Barry, my shirt caught fire and all your friends saw me topless. In my fancy bra.”

“Okay, that’s fair.”

 

* * *

 

When it was all over, she pulled Caitlin aside and asked for a room with a little more privacy.

“Oliver’s not as big on, uh, sharing.”

“Say no more.” Caitlin really was a gem.

Once they were in the glassed in room, Felicity pulled the privacy curtain all around. Oliver leaned back, very carefully, just resting against the edge of the bed. He didn’t object when she came over to help him out of his jacket. She had some idea of what she’d see, given the fuzz of motion that had appeared on the hacked traffic cameras.

“Is anything broken?”

“Cracked, maybe. He’s fast as hell, but he’s not that strong.” He exhaled through his nose, biting his lips.

“But not broken?”

“No, not broken.” Oliver was a less reliable reporter than some patients, but he never lied about his ribs. 

“Good. I’m a little more worried about your kidneys. Have you peed yet?”

He made a little noise in the back of his throat.

“Have you?”

“No.”

“Pink urine is bad, but not a disaster. Brown urine means serious bleeding, potential death. Got it?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, we can’t travel tonight, but we can leave in the morning. Don’t you look at me like that. I’m immune to that face. I’ve seen it too many times. Save it for Dr. Snow.”

“I don’t have a face.”

“If you say so. I’m going to wrap them now. You won’t be able to bend over. You want me to help you with the pants now, or wait for Digg? It could be a minute. He’s trying to shake Cisco down.”

“Why?”

“Ramon bet against you.” That earned her an epic eyebrow. “John took experience over speed.”

“Who did you bet on?”

“You know I never gamble with my own money.” She paused, laying out the bandages. “Llet’s get your pants off. I prefer experience over speed myself.”

Oliver smiled.

“Oh my G-d. Don’t you dare tell anyone I said that,” she warned, but she was smiling too, as she helped him into a green hoodie and STAR labs sweatpants.

They spent the night in a decent hotel, at a government rate, courtesy of Lyla’s expense account. It was a double room. Felicity gave the two giants the beds and made up the couch for herself. In return, she got to shower first. She brushed her teeth, avoiding her reflection in the mirror. She knew that avoidance was a bad sign, a little red flag. The price of survival was eternal vigilance.

She stepped out, in her most work-appropriate (Cthulu print) pajamas, damp hair hanging just to her shoulders. Oliver was was standing beside his bed, taking one step forward, and then back. 

“Lying or sitting?” she asked.

“I can’t decide.” It was an admission.

“I’ll help you lie down. And pack you in with pillows. If you agree to take a Tylenol three before we leave tomorrow.”

He frowned.

“I’ll brew your tea in the morning.”

“I forgot to pack it.”

“Oliver, please. It was like the third thing I put in my bag.”

In the morning they discovered there was no coffee in the room, so it took some time for her to engage with the world. She was in the backseat again, wearing her new STAR labs sweatshirt over her pajamas, when John put a large black coffee into her hands and she woke up enough to realize that her hair was doing truly wild things.

“Did you unwrap him this morning?” she asked John.

“I did.”

“Did he do the breathing thing?”

“He did.”

“I’m right here.” Oliver was sitting very upright in the passenger seat.

“Did you rewrap him?”

“He did.” Oliver had that face on where he couldn’t decide whether or not he was peeved or amused or both. Which reminded her. She dug out two Tylenol 3 and handed them forward, watching pointedly while he dry swallowed them.

“Be honest with me,” Felicity said. “How much blood was in your urine this morning?”

“I love road trips,” John said.

  
  


**Starling, 2014**

It was not as much fun to have Central City characters in Starling. They seemed outlandishly chipper outside of their natural habitat. It made her wonder if they had stuck out out as badly in California. Like Eeyore at a birthday party, reminding everyone of the relentless march of time before blowing out the candles.

Cisco in particular was irrepressible. But he was smart as hell and his zest for costuming was welcome, since Felicity had none. 

“But with a cowl--”

“Nope, it has to be a hood.”

“Listen, Smoak, as a style choice, I love it. But it’s not practical--it doesn’t conceal his identity very well and it limits his range of vision.”

“His vision is just fine.”

“A nice cowl--”

“Cisco. Put your listening ears on. The hood stays.”

He sighed dramatically and complained about his artistic sensibilities, but he did it while designing and sewing efficiently enough to please Tim Gunn.

 

* * *

 

The decrypted phone beeped. Felicity frowned.

“I swear I turned that off.”

“What?” Lyla was at her side immediately.

“Marko’s phone. I shut it down.”

Lyla looked at Felicity. Felicity looked at Lyla.

“Oh shitburgers,” Felicity said.

Which was right when the boomerang wielding murderer showed up. Felicity was firmly of the belief that the boomerang should not be so effective. Bows and arrows were one thing. Those were physics she could understand. Force one way, force the other way, twang. Boomerangs might as well be rocket science.

“Hello Lyla,” said Harkness. “It’s been a long time.”

“Guns!” Lyla shouted.

“Under the table,” Felicity yelled back over the clanging. “Second drawer! Third drawer! Peashooter under your chair!”

Lyla retrieved the two semi-automatics where they were holstered on the underside of the table and started returning fire. Felicity looked forward, towards the boomerang lunatic, and calculated how many feet she was from the flash bangs. Under cover from Lyla’s fire, she started moving forward. Caitlin army-crawled on her elbows to behind an extremely solid bookshelf and made herself into a very small target.

“You know what I like most about boomerangs, Lyla? They’re proof that things can come back to haunt you.”

How long had he been practicing that line? Felicity would have rolled her eyes if she wasn’t quite so terrified. Two more feet.

“You had a bomb for the back of my head. I’ve got something or the back of yours.”

“Lyla get down!” Felicity threw her grenade, and turned away just in time to see a boomerang bury itself in Lyla’s chest. There was suddenly a lot of blood on Lyla’s blouse. Felicity threw herself towards Lyla and ripped her blouse open, leaving the boomerang where it was embedded. Now there was suddenly a lot of blood on Felicity’s MIT t-shirt, too. She reached in with her bare hands. “Caitlin!”

“Oh no,” Caitlin said, and scrabbled towards her.

“Caitlin,” Felicity said, “I have my index finger on her subclavian artery.”

“Okay, good. That’s good.” They were both using their we’re-not-fucking-freaked-everything’s-fine doctor voices.

“Sara,” Lyla said, her eyes rolling between the two of them.

“Ambulance?” Caitlin asked.

Felicity shook her head. It wouldn’t be fast enough. Their phones started ringing.

“Barry will be back soon.” Caitlin reached for her cell.

“Ignore it. If they know, they’re on the way already. The code cart is in the southwest corner,” Felicity said. 

Caitlin rose, scrambled, returned gloved up and prepared. She slipped an oxygen mask over Lyla’s face and elevated her legs.

“There’s blood in the mini-fridge, the one that’s taped shut. Lyla’s O-positive, I should have at least two units.”  Felicity was working very hard at making sure her hand didn’t shake. The inside of a human body felt very, very different without gloves. 

“Lyla!” John roared as he thundered down the stairs, followed by the other boys.

“She’s alive!” Felicity said, knowing full well that they both looked a bloody mess.

“We've got her stabilized,” Caitlin said. “But we can’t operate on this here.”

“Felicity?” John asked. “Where?”

“Um.” She swallowed, trying to recall the four-on four-off schedule. “Kanerva’s not there this weekend. So, Starling General

“Starling General’s at 8th and Wolcott,” Oliver said.

“I can take her,” Barry said, kneeling beside them.

“You’ll have to take both of us. I have my finger on an artery. So, be really gentle. Caitlin, sling the oxygen over my shoulder. Put the blood bag between my teeth.”

“Jesus,” John muttered

“Okay.” Barry looked a little green. “Hold still.”

She was gone in a whoosh and deposited very carefully on the ground just outside the ER entrance of Starling General. Their appearance was, to put it mildly, remarked upon. 

Felicity stayed, with her finger inside Lyla, all the way to the OR. They put a cap and mask on her and wrapped a trauma gown around her in a vague gesture to sterility, while she knelt on the gurney besides Lyla’s prone form. Only when the surgery had actually begun and the cutdown had been successfully completed did the thoracic specialist instruct Felicity to remove her hand. 

“I don’t think I can,” Felicity admitted, not sure if the problem was mental or physical. But her hand was not moving. “I definitely can’t. One of you is going to have to do it for me.”

The surgeon nodded to a scrub nurse who stepped up carefully, called her sweetie, and then deftly laid hands on Felicity’s bloody arm and remove it from the surgical field. As soon as she stumbled out of the OR doors, she clocked two patrol officers waiting outside the ward. But then the whoosh returned and she was standing over a bomb and really. This day was not even over.

 

* * *

 

“Are they gone?” Oliver asked as Felicity tiptoed back down the stairs in socks. She was in her cave sweats, her street clothes being too gory to be salvaged. They’d even had to sponge off Barry’s suit after he returned her to the club post-defusion. Cisco might never forgive her.

“They’re gone.” At the bottom, she slipped her stockinged feet into her knockoff Target Uggs. The lair in December was appallingly cold.

“Are you stealing from my club?” His eyes actually twinkled, the bastard, when he saw the Glenlivet.

“Technically, I’m stealing from Thea’s club.” She retrieved two glasses and sat herself in the chair next to him. “Besides, no one up there is going to appreciate it. They’re all just gyrating on each other, like they’re trying to start a campfire by rubbing their reproductive organs together.”

“That is...explicit.” He poured them each a healthy measure of Scotch.

“I’m too tired to filter.” She took a sip and raised her eyebrows with appreciation. “But Lyla’s fine, which is all that matters.”

“Prochnost.” Oliver raised his glass.

“L’chaim. And here’s to swimming with bow-legged women.”

He choked on his whiskey. Felicity giggle-snorted.

“May you never go to hell, but be always on your way,” she added, still laughing. “I’m sorry. This a thing that happens to me when I stay awake too long.” She knocked back the rest of her drink. “I should go home.”

“You can always--”

“Oh shit! I almost forgot!” she popped up out of her chair. “If that boomerang motherfucker broke it, I swear to G-d.” Already a little tipsy, she kept one hand on her desk for balance as she leaned over and rummaged around in her drawers. “Aha!” She rose up with a large Mason jar full of something white and relatively solid. It had a large, blue, sparkly ribbon around it. “Happy Hanukkah!”

“Thank you,” he said, accepting the gift.

She grinned with pride.

“Is it...edible?”

“No, definitely don’t eat it. I don’t think it would kill you, but it’s my first time with that recipe so it’s kind of hard to say.”

“Felicity, what is it?”

“Oh! I totally meant to print a label. I found a thing on Pinterest, too, it was going to be good. Anyway, it’s a homemade arnica cream. Cooked in a hotwired crockpot, naturally. I know how much you hate real medicine.”

Oliver unscrewed the lid and smiled fondly at it.

“ _ Arnica montana _ , ordered from one hippie ranch in Colorado. Also known as wolf’s bane, but not to be confused with aconitum, which will really kill you. It contains helenalin, which is analgesic and anti-inflammatory.”

“It smells like honey.”

“Beeswax and honey and some other stuff the internet told me to add. Vitamin E.”

“Thank you, Felicity.” His smile faded. “I don’t have anything for you.”

“Oh, well, nobody expects the goyim to keep track our holidays. I may actually be a little early. I don’t know. My calendar alerts got all messed up with the last OS update.” She swallowed. “You can catch me at Christmas.”

“Deal,” Oliver said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And definitely don't cook your own herbs, and I'm not talking about the pakalolo. Don't pick your own mushrooms, either. We didn't win the Cold War to wander around the woods hoping for non-lethal fungi.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this one took a hot minute to write. I couldn't really decide how to handle this arc, so I'm pantsing it. Which is what I usually do, but I got a little caught up faffing about trying to plan ahead. Terrible idea.

_ Here is the riddle of love: everything it gives to you, it takes away. _

-Alice Hoffman,  _ The Dovekeepers _

 

**Starling, Yule 2014**

“Did you know that there’s an excellent bodega on this corner?” Palmer was wearing a festive maroon snowflake scarf with his $3,000 cashmere blend coat.

“I did, actually,” Felicity said, giving him a rare smile. “Apparently some crazy businessman made him a loan at zero percent interest so he could reopen.” It was good to have the corner store open again. It had been sorely missed in a neighborhood that didn’t even aspire to a QFC, much less a farmer’s market.

“Want to take a look inside?”

“Sure.” 

The door opened into a modest, comfortable waiting room. The ceiling throughout was at least two feet higher than it had been. There were real picture windows now facing the street, with frosted glass to protect privacy. The chairs were solid wood, not the spindly looking modern kind or the uncomfortable looking Shaker ladderbacks. Just...solid. Like the jury chairs from _Perry Mason_. There were benches, too. And a small play area with toys and puzzles, also wood, the kind built to withstand at least a year of toddlers. Sin’s old desk was there, although it had been sanded and painted to hide the century or so of wear. In the back was her exam room, with extra storage, and a new table, and new instruments--which she hadn’t even asked for. The bathroom was huge and would easily pass inspection now, with grab bars and a drain that probably even worked.

“Palmer,” she said quietly. “This is beautiful.”

“It’s not done, of course,” he said quickly. “We haven’t talked about art. I didn’t want to make a selection without you. I was thinking about classic photographs of Starling, before the quake and fire. Timber camps, women in hoop skirts. But then I thought that you might think that was reductive. So I started looking at more modern art, but that’s not exactly soothing. After that, I visited a gallery downtown and thought about--”

“Palmer. You’re ruining it.”

“Right.”

“Thank you.”

“No, thank you for talking those people into selling their mine.”

“They sold?”

“About five minutes after you bailed.”

“I’m sorry about that.”

“Don’t be sorry! The alloy is ours.”

“Murals.”

“What?”

“The art. I want big prints of Albro and Tait and Berlandina from the PWAP. And Rivera, too,  _ Man Controller of the Universe _ . The real one with Lenin and Trotsky.”

“The donors will love that,” he said dryly, but with a smile.

“Only one donor has ever actually stepped foot in the clinic, and he wouldn’t know communist propaganda if it bit him on the ass.”

“Ah--let me guess. Oliver.”

“Yeah, well, I think they covered art history while he was doing kegstands.”

“Felicity.”

“Yeah?”

“I was wondering if you’d be interested in dinner, again.”

“Sure,” she said absently, inspecting the now-with-locks filing cabinets behind the desk. “But I can’t guarantee that I’ll manage a similar sales feat.”

“I mean a real dinner.”

“What?” Distracted, she took her buzzing phone out of her pocket.

“A real dinner.” Palmer cleared his throat. “As in more of a date. Not more of a date. A date. With you. And me.”

Felicity blinked at him and looked down at her phone. Then she looked up at him, this incredibly tall, handsome man, who had given her everything for no real reason, and now wanted to take her on a real date, like she was someone date-able. Someone he would pick.

“A date,” he repeated.

“I have to go. Work.”

“But you’re at...work,” he said, as she jogged out of the beautifully renovated clinic and threw herself onto her bike. She hadn’t even seen what he’d done with the apartment above.

Felicity pedaled hard, trying to clear her confusion with air that was promising snow. She skidded to a halt in the alley behind Verdant, sliding her bike into its customary hiding spot behind the dumpster, pulling a tarp over it to protect it from the incoming wintry mix. Her bones throbbed where they intersected with surgical steel. She worried that someday she’d need the hardware removed and tried not to limp down the stairs, knowing they would hear it. But turned out to be a moot point. The boys were glowering, alternately at each other and the floor.

“What happened?” she asked, easing herself into her desk chair.

“Nyssa paid me a visit,” Oliver said “The League wants Sara’s killer handed over in the next 48 hours.”

“...or what?” she finished.

“Or they’ll start killing civilians.” Diggle glowered harder.

“Two days? Two? This is touch DNA, not a strep test!” Absently, she massaged her left wrist. “Caitlin’s working on it, but the STR markers are degraded. It’s going to take a little longer.”

“Felicity, it can’t take any longer.”

 

* * *

 

“Caitlin, quit talking to me like I’m a biochemist.” Felicity was laying on her back on the fighting mats, with her legs up the wall at a ninety degree angle. Digg insisted it would help her aching foot, or maybe he just wanted her out of the way while they discussed contingency plans that she wouldn’t like. On the other end of the line, Caitlin sighed.

“This is touch DNA,” she said. “Not a strep test.”

“That’s--that’s what I told them! You work with a boy genius and a CSI tech. You have no idea what it’s like for me here. I have to talk in car and sports metaphors. And you and I both know I only have one sport.”

“They don’t know about your NCAA--”

“No. And they never will, Caitlin. Not if you don’t want them to know about your freshman year talent show.”

“Felicity!”

“This is mutually assured destruction.”

“Fine.” Caitlin sighed. “The DNA was a loss in the end. But the mtDNA was good. It’s a big file, but the transfer should be complete soon.”

“Thank you, Caitlin. I gotta go. My knuckle-draggers are waiting.”

Felicity rolled away from the wall and pushed herself to her feet, grimacing. Maybe she would apply to a trauma fellowship somewhere warm. Tripler was always looking good people--and they’d pay off her loans, too. Tropical heat, fresh fruit, and a debt free life.

“Good news?” Digg asked.

“What? No, the file transfer isn’t complete yet.”

“You were smiling.”

“I was thinking about living somewhere without snow.”

Oliver gave her a strange look and cleared his throat.

“Right.” Felicity limped over to her chair and sat down. “Okay, so the DNA was too degraded to be useful. But, the mitochondrial DNA was still good.”

“In English?” Digg suggested.

“Remember when they dug up Richard III?”

“From under the parking lot,” Roy said. There was a pause. “What? Why am I not supposed to know things?”

“Anyway,” Felicity said quickly. “Richard’s DNA was way, way too old to be tested, obviously. But the mitochondrial DNA was intact. The mitochondria is--”

“--the powerhouse of the cell,” Roy finished. “What?”

“Right. Well. It’s inherited differently than nuclear DNA. mtDNA can only be passed through the mother. Richard had no children, no direct line of DNA. But the Brits found a descendant of Richard’s sister, Anne of York. They had the same mother, and therefore the same mtDNA. Anne passed the mtDNA all the way down to a Canadian woman whose son was swabbed, providing a direct genetic link back almost six hundred years.”

“Wow,” Roy said.

“As fascinating as this is,” John suggested, “maybe we could save the history?”

“Oh, we’re just waiting for search hits. I’m starting with Washington State’s, and then we’ll move on to CODIS for a broader net. When it matches I’ll--” It was pretty rare that one’s jaw actually fell open. But there hers went.

“Who is it?” Oliver asked.

She closed her mouth and swallowed, but still couldn’t talk.

“Felicity!”

“Well. The touch DNA, the mtDNA, is a match to an Iron Heights prisoner who was compelled by the district attorney to give a sample into evidence.”

“Who killed Sara?”

“Um. Your mom?”

“That’s not funny,” Diggle warned her.

“I’m not being funny! It’s his mom!” Felicity turned the monitor to show them Moira Queen, in her prison jumpsuit, unbowed by her circumstances. “Which means that it’s your DNA on the murder weapon. Or Thea’s.”

“This must be a mistake,” John growled.

“The court 

“Okay, so, somehow my DNA is on the arrows.”

“Someone’s setting you up, Oliver.”

“Someone with a vested interest in pitting me against the League of Assassins."

 

* * *

 

"Maybe there's something we should consider here. Maybe it wasn't your DNA, Oliver, maybe it was Thea's."

"What?"

"You two are siblings. That DNA would be the same--the same mother."

"Diggle, are you listening to yourself? You're suggesting that Thea killed Sara. Even if--even if she would, even if she could. Why?"

“Well, Malcolm Merlyn is her father.” Roy was apparently in the mood to live dangerously.

“I hate to even say this,” Felicity said, hoping to deflect attention.

“Then don't.”

“Oliver.” She stood up slowly. “I know how much you love your sister, no one here would ever doubt that. But I...I was the one who cleaned Sara’s body. I was the one who prepared her for burial. I didn’t perform a full autopsy, but I--” She glanced at Roy, and then away. “I examined the wounds. I took pictures. When Roy started dreaming, I considered it, for a moment, that it might have been him--”

“That is not what you told me then,” Oliver objected.

“--because of the entry angle. Most archers are bigger men, men with long arms. The entry angle on Sara, though, suggested someone shorter. Closer to five foot than six.”

“You weren't considering a killer of Thea's size,” Diggle said.

“Enough, both of you! My sister did not kill Sara. The DNA on the arrows is mine because Malcolm Merlyn put it there.”

Digg looked at her.  _ He’s not listening _ .

_ I know _ , she looked back, but was saved by her phone buzzing.

“Hi?”

“Hey, uh, we need to talk, so I came here.”

“Here where?” she asked, pulling up the screen. And there he was, with his perfect haircut, standing at the bar. Behind her, Oliver made a noise that sounded like a cross between a grunt and a snort.

“Where you are. I might have pinged your phone... again.”

“Palmer, for fuck’s sake.” She sighed. “I’ll be right there.” She hung up. “Angels and minister of grace,” she muttered. “I have to go upstairs. How do I look?”

“Uhh…” Roy was the only one foolish enough to open his mouth.

“You’re right,” she admitted, looking down at her jeans (an inch too long), her t-shirt (ASK ME ABOUT MY FEMINIST AGENDA), and sneakers. “But we don’t have that kind of time. And Sin’s not here, anyway. I’m going up there. Roy, incinerate this phone.”

“This is...not where I expected to find you,” Palmer admitted, looking out over the crowd.

“I know Thea, the owner. She got comped some champagne by a vendor, so she was going to donate it to my cause.”

“Your cause?”

“I’m almost finished with my residency.”

“Of course, of course.”

“Palmer, what are you doing here?”

“How does one swing free champagne, anyway? Do you have to ask?”

“Palmer.”

“This morning. Our conversation was interrupted. I wanted to finish it.”

“You want to talk about art history?”

“Uh, no.” He looked sheepish. “After that.”

“I had to go--work.”

“Right. Well, I was in the middle of asking you on a date. An actual date, not a work dinner.”

Felicity sat silently. Had he been asking her on a date this morning? She didn’t remember it.

“I know it’s strange,” Palmer was saying. “I know--”

“What happened?” she cut him off. “To Anna?”

He looked at his hands.

“She’s the reason you’re doing all this, right? The reason you’re renovating the clinic. The reason the bodega is open again. The reason Glades Memorial is suddenly flush with cash. And don’t think I haven’t heard about the new detox and rehab. I know that’s what you bought the old records building for.”

“Kuttler Cosmetology meant a lot to her.” He said it quietly and suddenly Felicity was on the brink of tears.

“I keep meaning to restart it, but...you know, residency.”

“You’ll have more time. And a lot more money, soon.” He cleared his throat. “Anna was a very...genuine person.”

“She was a little corny.” She said it with a smile and it made him laugh.

“Yes, she was. But so am I.”

“Yeah, but she had a real gift, too. I used to guest-star at her story-times, you know. I had to sing a song about eating fruits and vegetables.”

“Did she make you do the kitchen rhyme?”

“One, two, three four,” she began.

“Raymond’s at the kitchen door,” he finished.

“Five, six, seven, eight.”

“Eating pizza off his plate.”

“I always had to pretend to like salad. I was always eating salad off my plate She could convince me to do anything for a story-time.”

“She never let me watch one.”

“What? Are you kidding me?”

“She said I gave her stage fright.”

Felicity snorted. “As if.”

“I was with her,” he said, tone suddenly cold. “That night. When all the men in masks… I was walking her home from work, because it was after dark in the Glades. We tried to run. And when that didn’t work, I turned around, to try and fight them. They broke my leg and they went after her. I couldn’t save her. I watched them...as they broke her neck.”

“I’m so sorry, Palmer. I didn’t know.”

“It’s not something you lead with. Anna was supposed to be the last woman I ever kissed, ever took to dinner, ever walked home with in the dark. And then we were eating dinner, and right when you left, I thought...I would like to eat dinner with her again.”

Felicity swallowed.

“Let me guess. You’re taken?”

“I’m...complicated.”

“Of course you are.”

“Palmer. What are you doing with Queen Consolidated? It doesn’t have anything to do with Kuttler Cosmetology. Why did you buy it?”

“Because it was for sale.”

“When I said ‘I’m complicated,’ I meant, like, pretty fucking complicated. So. Why are you lying to me?”

Which was how she learned that Palmer, too, had seen  _ Iron Man _ , but had taken it a little bit farther than the rest of the audience. And he needed a Pepper Potts.

“Why does this keep happening to me?”

“What?”

“Give me some time, to think about it. Don’t worry, I’m good at keeping secrets. But right now. Right now I have to go.”

“Work?” he asked with a half smile.

“No. Um, a farewell party.”

Felicity slipped back downstairs, into the hidden door, and didn’t bother to disguise the fact that she was favoring her right ankle. She worried that she’d need the hardware removed. That was the worry her brain latched onto, when there was something bigger and scarier to worry about. Much easier to worry about the surgical screws and chronic pain than being infatuated with an unstable vigilante about to face off with an ageless murder machine. Or her student debt.

“I’m sorry. Something...” she trailed off as she reached the last stair. She stayed there, looking at the boys, watching Oliver lift up his messenger bag and put it over his shoulder. 

“Let’s give them a minute,” John said, patting her on the shoulder as he passed her. Even Roy gave her hand a squeeze as he went by. And then the door upstairs closed and she was alone with Oliver.

“So you’re going?” It came out as more of a whisper. She could feel her voice...going...to wherever it went when he did things like this and scared it away.

“Mmmhmm,” he said, walking towards her.

“To Nanda Parbat?”

“No, it’s a neutral site. It’ll be fine. I’ll come back. Thea will be okay.” He stopped at the base of the stairs, and standing like this, she could actually look him in the eye.

But she couldn’t make herself talk. He was the only person who could do this to her, and it should have been infuriating. But sometimes, as Dr. Sauer explained a decade plus before, feelings that paralyzed her mentally could also paralyze her vocally. Like a circuit break, her larynx would trip and cut off power.  _ What’s a circuit breaker? _ young Felicity had asked.

“I’ll come back,” he repeated. 

Felicity reached out and grabbed his arms above the elbow and held on. She thought about Palmer, so tall and handsome and rich and glib, on his back, with his leg broken, watching a mirakuru goon squeeze Anna Loring’s cervical vertibrae into bone fragments. Felicity held on harder.

“Felicity,” he said gently. “I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t think I could win.”

_ You have to kill Ra’s. You have got to kill him _ . She thought it at him as hard as she could. It didn’t work, of course, because telepathy wasn’t a thing she had. Maybe Barry could arrange for it sometime. There had to be more mojo wherever his came from.  _ Focus. This is important. _ She leaned forward and leaned her head on his shoulder. They stayed that way for a few moments, until he gently pushed her away. Then he smiled at her, sweetly, in a way she hadn’t seen before and kissed her on the cheek, his scruff and his smell right against her skin.

“I love you,” he murmured.

She pulled back, surprised. Oliver tried to step away, but she wasn’t letting go of his arms for love or money now. Felicity blinked at him, then put her hands on his shoulders. It was her turn to lean in and this time she kissed him on the lips, a proper goodbye kiss. She’d surprised him, but he relaxed after a second, putting his arms around her waist and holding her against him. Felicity leaned in, trusting him with her balance. She felt him lift her, turn her, set her down on the foundry’s floor.

Now she had to look up at him, lifting her chin. He held her face between his hands and kissed her one more time on the forehead, and she was overwhelmed by the smell of Oliver and Old Spice. And then he left. Why did everything about him have to be so appealing? Why did she have to want everything about him?  Why did he have to wait so long?

 

* * *

 

Six hours later, Felicity woke up screaming in the call room.

“Christ have mercy on me!” Intern B gasped, and fell off the top bunk across from her.

“Are you okay?” Intern A rolled out of the bottom bunk.

“Don’t step on me, asshole. Oh, fuck, my coxyx.” Intern B reached for his fundament, right when the door burst open, admitting the garish hallway light.

“What happened?” Dr. Kanerva asked. “Is everyone alright?”

Felicity was sitting upright in her scrubs on a gurney, her blanket fallen over her legs. She had one hand over her mouth and the other splayed over her side.

“Dr. Smoak?”

“Bucket,” Felicity said. “Bucket!”

Dr. Kanerva, whose reflexes were next to none, leaned over, scooped up the trashcan, and thrust it into her hands. Felicity hadn’t eaten, so there wasn’t much in her stomach, but she expelled everything she could. 

“Are you alright?”

“My coxyx,” said Intern B.

“He’s not talking to you, Tucker,” said Intern A. “No one cares about your coxyx.”

“Fine,” Felicity said, wiping her mouth.

“I’ll talk to your attending. You should go home.”

“It was just a dream.”

Dr. Kanerva, a man of Finnish extraction, didn’t have a broad range of facial expressions, but he did manage to blink sarcastically. 

“It was,” she maintained.

“I’ll talk to your attending.”

She knew it hadn’t been The Dream, but it had been bad enough for her to wake up and...disgrace herself in front of the attendings and the her favorite surgeon. The disgrace part wasn’t what was crawling under her skin, though, it was the fact that she couldn’t remember what the dream had been about.

“Here.”

She looked over. Intern A was holding out her phone to her.

“Thanks.”

“It’s snowing--you should call a ride,” Intern A advised, before taking his friend away to get his ass examined.

Felicity’s hands were shaking as she dialed John’s number.

“It’s me,” she said. “I fell asleep in the on call room and had a dream and I need you to come get me.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing--I just said.”

“Felicity, you’re crying.”

“I am?” Now she could hear it, the shaking in her voice, and the 

“Stay there. I’m coming.”

_ I’ll come back. I’ll come back. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used mtDNA, because I vaguely understand it, and I have no fucking clue how STR markers work, so I couldn’t make Felicity talk about it. If it hasn’t been explained to me on Forensic Files, I don’t get it. And, btw, that’s the level of scientific understanding you’re going to get here: Forensic Files with a side of SSDGM.


	10. Chapter 10

_ We stood and watched as G-d abandoned us, and then we did the best we could. _

-Alice Hoffman,  _ The Dovekeepers _

 

_ You’re not dead until you’re warm and dead _ .

-Emergency Medicine Axiom

 

**Starling 2015**

At first, shortly after she’d lost her lunch and fallen out of the gurney, Felicity thought she might be suffering some sort of psychosomatic freakout about Oliver leaving. But she wasn’t. Or at least, that wasn’t the only thing she was suffering.

By the time John arrived, Felicity had a positive RIDT, a box of Tamiflu, a temp of 101, and a budding inner ear infection on the side where she’d blown her eardrum out in the fall.

“You’re a mess,” Dr. Kanerva said, handing her small dropper bottle of Cipro for her ear and a mask to wear on her way home.

“I don’t know what happened,” Felicity said hoarsely, pulling the mask on. “I got the shot.”

“It’s a spotty vaccine this year. I heard it from a friend in Olympia. Stats are all over the place”

“Hey!” Diggle saw them as he jogged through the hallway and came skidding to a stop. “Are you okay?”

“Influenza A,” Dr. Kanerva said. “She’s had her first dose of Tamiflu and a bag of fluids.”

“I’ll take you home,” John said. “We can stop at the QFC on the way and pick up the essentials.”

“It’s my old place, actually,” Felicity said. “Palmer sent movers over today.”

“Did he,” Dr. Kanerva muttered, peeling off his gloves and making notes on the chart.

Felicity glared at him.

“I didn’t know it was going to be ready.” John reached out a hand to help her to her feet. Her balance was shit.

“He said it was a Hanukkah present. Ilmari, I can see your face, and I do not appreciate it.”

“Doctors make terrible sick people,” Dr. Kanerva observed.

“The old place it is,” John said.

The old place above the clinic was almost unrecognizable. Most of the ceiling between the tiny studio and the tinier attic had been removed, and the attic was now an open sleeping loft. The uneven linoleum was now smooth wood flooring. The massive oak table remained, but now there was also room for a sofa and a wall of bookshelves, with a new flatscreen in the middle. The cabinets were new, topped with granite, and the bathroom was...yes also all new with granite and even a small bathtub. Felicity, a little unsteady, climbed up a stair or two on the loft’s ladder to peek at the nook. It was a king sized mattress with a comforter and pillows that definitely did not come from IKEA. The small dormer window above looked into the night sky.

“Holy crap,” Diggle said.

“Yeah.”

“He’s really putting the moves on you.”

“You should see the HVAC downstairs.” Felicity gravitated back towards the bathroom where a small closet was hidden behind pocket doors. While John put away the contents of the bodega bag, she changed into her pajamas and washed her face. When she came out, she headed straight for the sofa, which was not only comfortable but included a throw that might actually be cashmere. Felicity groaned.

“What’s wrong?”

“He’s totally putting the moves on me.” She closed her eyes and snuggled into the soft material of the back of the sofa. “I don’t even care anymore.”

“Sure you do,” John said, tucking the blanket around her. “Damn. Is this cashmere?”

 

* * *

 

Felicity moved between the sofa and the bed for three days, living on ginger ale and watching BSG on the small flatscreen that was now hers, principles be damned. Palmer sent chicken soup from a Jewish deli in Ivy Town every day. John texted to make sure she was still among the living and reminded her when to take her medicine. Sin poked her head in once, pronounced the digs bitchin’ and then disappeared again after telling Felicity she looked like one of the really stringy zombies from  _ Walking Dead _ . Even Roy appeared once with the ingredients for Bloody Marys, which was apparently his idea of comfort food.

Oliver sent nothing because he’d left.

On the fourth day, she was able to eat Saltines and login remotely to the lair to help track some lowlife named Brickwell. She could hear out of both ears and stand still with her eyes closed. She took the most wonderful shower of her life, changed into clean pajamas, and climbed back onto the sofa to watch the Cylons march down the muddy streets of New Caprica. Then John stopped by to tell her that Oliver was probably dead. 

“Listen, we spoke with Malcolm Merlyn. I think you should prepare yourself.”

“And I think you need to remember that Malcolm Merlyn is a legitimate antisocial personality, a psychopath. He is a master manipulator and a man without a conscience. There is no truth for people like him. The truth is what he believes, and only in the moment he believes it.”

“That’s about what Laurel said,” John said wryly. “And it’s true, Felicity. But he may be right all the same. He brought a sword, with blood on it. When you feel up to it, we should probably run some tests.”

“Then where’s the body?”

“There was a ravine.”

“Says Merlyn?”

“Says Merlyn.”

“Let me put this in terms you can understand.” She pushed herself upright, face hot. “Until Malcolm Merlyn shows me Oliver’s body, and I personally perform the identification via fingerprint, dental, and DNA analysis, I will not take his word for the color of the sky. Got it?”

“Got it,” John said quietly. “But Felicity--”

“I’m tired.”

“Okay. Get some sleep.”

On the fifth day, Felicity went back to work. She stopped at the lair just long enough to start the necessary blood tests. And then she stayed away.

 

* * *

 

DIGG: Need you to call Lance

What’s up?

DIGG: Brick’s going to hit the evidence warehouse.

DIGG: Make all the outstanding cases disappear.

I’ll call him.

DIGG: Are you coming?

I have patients.

DIGG: Felicity.

I have to go.

Patients.

 

* * *

 

“I can’t believe I’m doing this.” Felicity pulled at the cuffs of her blazer.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Palmer asked.

“Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

“Because you look a little bit like one of those old timey consumptive ladies.”

“I do not,” she said, while pinching her own cheeks. “Better?”

“Let’s just make sure you’re not caught on camera.”

“Why am I coming to this meeting again?” she asked, now actively looking for hidden paparazzi. She could see the headlines now: Palmer Putz Puts it to Pale Petite Personage. 

“Because you’re a community leader and I’m a community leader and this is a meeting for community leaders. That’s why we’re crashing it.”

“It’s like you signed me for student council.” She slunk into the mayor’s conference room behind him, watched Palmer smarm and smile and offer up a seven figure donation to the SCPD. And then of course the meeting was being invaded by thugs. Which was exactly why she didn’t go to meetings, because she was clearly thug bait.

“What?” Palmer asked. They were on the floor, his body interposed between her and the assailants.

“I said I should have brought my gun.”

“You have a gun?”

“Look out!”

The fight that followed was short, brutish, and nasty. Mostly, they lost. But Palmer, Lance, and Laurel were still standing. And that was all she could muster the energy to care about at the moment. Palmer helped her to her feet and Felicity had to hang on, harder than she’d like to admit.

“How’s your heart?” she asked Lance. Without asking, she reached for his wrist to check his radial pulse.

“Ah, still beating. You okay?”

“Fine.” His heart did appear to still be beating and doing a decent job of it.

“Are you sure? You look a little…pasty.”

“Chivalry is really making a comeback this year,” she muttered, dropping his wrist.

“Yeah, well. I call ‘em like I see ‘em. Listen, I couldn’t help but notice that nobody in a green hood showed up to save the day.”

“That’s because he’s gone,” she said and tried to arrange her face in a way that indicated the absence was temporary and she would not be fielding further questions about it.

“What do you mean gone?” Quentin looked legitimately upset, bless his little pig heart.

“It means we’re on our own. At least for now.” What was it the twelve-steppers always said? One day at a time? She could live with Oliver’s absence for one day.

“But that doesn’t make any sense. What, the Arrow’s gone, but Sara’s back?”

“What?” she said, thanking G-d and all his angels that her uncle had taught her how to lie to cops. Well, perfected her technique anyway. “What are you talking about?”

“Yeah, she’s been taking about Brick’s men solo. I’ve been getting reports down at the precinct. Blonde, mask, bo-staff. You didn’t know?”

“I was sick last week. I may have missed some things.” She couldn’t help following Laurel with her eyes. “You should go. Kidnapping, and all.”

“Right.”

Palmer declined to visit a hospital, on the grounds that he had perfectly adequate medical facilities at Palmer Tech. Felicity decided to go along with him, on the grounds that the thought of one of those croissants was actually appetizing. She’d left home without her trusty, but very informal, nylon messenger bag full of medical shit. But Palmer, as always, was overprepared. It was almost as impressive a stockpile as the lair. Almost.

“Sit,” she ordered Palmer.

“Okay,” he said, somewhat bemused.

“Are you okay?” she asked, checking his pupils with her penlight. She realized he’d never seen her as Dr. Smoak, woman of action. Maybe that’s why he was looking at her so intently. Or maybe she looked as washed out as she felt.

“I’m fine.”

“Uh-huh. I’m not talking about your face, although I will return that to its perfectly symmetrical glory.”

“Yeah,” he admitted calmly. “When it started, all I could think about was that night. But then, that guy rushed us, and all I could think about was you.”

Felicity tried to ignore that while she swabbed the shallow scrape along his cheekbone. It really wasn’t more than a scratch.

“When I started with ATOM, it was all about avenging Anna. But now it’s something more.”

“Oh yeah? I don’t think it needs stitches,” she said absently. Suddenly she was overwhelmed by it all. Another meeting interrupted by gunfire. Another man to patch up. Another day where she was the only one still waiting for Oliver to come home. She sat down in a chair next to Palmer and pulled her gloves off, putting one hand against her forehead.

“It’s about protecting the people I care for,” Palmer said. And he put his hand on her shoulder.

“You mean the city, and Glades.”

“No. I mean you.”

She didn’t really know what to do with that.

“Oh look,” Palmer said. “The croissants are here. You should eat. You look terrible.”

 

* * *

 

“Laurel.” Felicity didn’t have time to stop or be polite. “This is for you.” She tossed a small packet of equipment at her.

“What is it?” Laurel asked, wiping at her face. Felicity could see the dead alderman’s family photos on the screen. 

“It’s a voice modifier. The kind...we use. I made one for you.”

“Why?”   


“Because if you’re going to be the Canary, you’re going to need her voice.” Felicity’s phone rang--Lance, of course. “Go,” she said, while making wrap-this-up hands at Laurel.

“Brick wants every cop out of the Glades, or he’s going to kill his hostages. We need help. We need it now. Look, I know you said the Arrow is gone--”

“He’s gone. But I know where to find the Canary.”

Laurel smiled as she hung up.

“We gotta go,” Felicity said, fighting against the fatigue. “Chop chop. Things to do. Asses to kick. Helicopters to borrow.”

 

* * *

 

A few hours later, the aldermen were safe, but the Glades were still screwed. Felicity was early for her shift and paged Dr. Kanerva to the haunted exam room in the basement. She felt strangely close to Oliver here, where she’d held him so tightly, and spoken for him, and hidden his face from her friends.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked.

“I feel like shit. But this is more of a big picture thing, Ilmari.”

“Is our friend--”

“No. We’re in trouble. You and me, not me and him. He’s… Look, here’s the thing. The mayor’s negotiating with terrorists.”

“Come again?”

“She’s going to trade the Glades for the aldermen. The cops are going to be pulled out in the next few hours. She’s ceding us to Brickwell”

“Jesus Christ.”

“You know me,” she said. “Normally, I’d be all for it, but not if the alternative is Brick. Listen, I’ve talked to Palmer. He’s sending backup to us. The armed private security kind.”

“But?”

“But you and I both know the hospital administrators are going to sit on their fat asses and let our patients swing in the wind and let the security guys guard the expensive equipment. They’re going to demand an evacuation and unless we do something, they’ll get it.”

“You think we should stay.”

“This district is about to go to hell in a handbasket. If there’s nobody here to help these people? It could go from bad to worse. Fast. We still have time to prepare for this.” Felicity tried to read his face and then forged ahead. “Listen, I know the Chief is on sabbatical, and I know that’s code for in a cabin with his mistress. And I know you’re his acting. Which makes you the only one with the power to do this before it’s too late.”

“You presume a lot, Dr. Smoak.” Ilmari was silent for a long time. “Fine. Give the page.”

Felicity picked up the room’s phone and called the hospital operator, a woman named Ruby who immediately asked if Felicity was feeling better.

“Lima Delta,” she said coolly, ignoring the question. “Lima Delta.”

Glades Memorial locked down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Ilmari is a real name. It's from the Kalevala, which you should totally read or at least check out the paintings of Akseli Gallen-Kallela to get a sense of what a national epic looks like when your country is weird as shit.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hello? This is the fifth circle of hell, Virgil speaking.”

_I’d been bitten by a lion, but you had to look inside me to see the scar._

-Alice Hoffman, _The Dovekeepers_

 

**Starling, 2015**

“Why me, Lord?” she asked, fumbling in the dark for her buzzing phone. “Hello? This is the fifth circle of hell, Virgil speaking.”

“What? Where are you, exactly?” Lance asked.

“I’m in a haunted exam room in the hospital basement, in between the imaging equipment and the morgue.”

“Are you making this shit up?”

“No. I live here now. The ghost doesn’t bother me and the interns are afraid of me. Or him. Him, the ghost.” Felicity rolled onto her back, trying to figure out how long she had really been asleep for.

She, along with Ilmari and a few other doctors, nurses, and staff, had been living in the hospital for a week. All the patients that could be transferred had been ferried out to Starling General and Ivy Town Regional Medical Center by Life Flight. Only a skeleton staff remained, bolstered by volunteers from the area who traveled by Palmer Tech helicopter. Felicity would leave, but her home was in the clinic and the clinic was in the Glades, too. She was much less afraid of Salk (the ghost) than Brick’s men.

“...Smoak? Earth to Felicity?”

“Sorry. I must have drifted off there for a minute.”

“You’ve been busy.”

“We’re all trying to keep things together.” She rubbed at her eyes, located her glasses, and put them on. She pushed herself to sitting on the hospital bed and reached for her laptop. “Doesn’t really feel like it’s been working.”

“How can I help?”

“Can you? I didn’t think they let cops pretend to protect or serve these days.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t help the Hood Squad off the books.”

“Okay, you definitely can’t call it that.”

“I just got everything we got on Brick from evidence lockup.”

“Okay. I’ll text Arsenal.”

“Arsenal? What, are you guys just pulling names out of a hat now?”

“I don’t know, Hood Squad, you tell me.” Under the flaccid hospital pillow, her pager started buzzing. Felicity groaned.  “I gotta go--the collateral damage is about to arrive.”

“How’s your security?”

“Decent. We handcuff all the men between eighteen and fifty to the gurneys when they arrive. Palmer’s stormtroopers are intimidating enough to keep most of them in line, regardless.”

“You packing?”

“You really want me to answer that?”

“Right. Dumb question. Listen, you stay safe.”

“You’re sweet.” Felicity hopped off the gurney and felt with her toes for her sneakers, slipping them on and lacing them up with the phone pinned between her ear and shoulder. “Especially for a cop.”

“You know, I don’t think you’re half as tough as you make yourself out to be.”

“No gods, no masters.”

“Yeah, yeah. Keep your head down, kid.”

From the dark, quiet room that she shared with Salk, Felicity stepped out into the dim hallway, and then the harsh light of the elevator. Her reflection in the stainless steel was not a flattering one. She looked hollow eyed, hollow cheeked, wispy hairs curling away from her face, but somehow still greasy.

There were two goons handcuffed to gurneys when she stepped out into the ER. Immediately, she recognized Roy’s handiwork. In a tight spot, he always fell back on his street brawling instincts, which was why this bald goon’s nose was never going to be the same again.

“How are you doing?” she asked, glancing at the nurse, Liza, who was giving her a sardonic look.

“Fuck you,” said the goon.

“Thank you, but no.” Felicity squinted at him. “Listen, I’d page plastics, but there’s no plastics here. They don’t work south of the bridge anymore, thanks to you. I guess your nose is just going to have to stay crooked. But I bet you’re used to breathing through your mouth.”

Liza raised both eyebrows.

“Let’s get a tox screen on this upstanding gentleman. And while we’re at it, put him in line for a CT. I know that look, Liza. It’s the look of a man who’s just been given an orbital fracture by a 5’5” rent boy lookalike in red leather.”

 

* * *

 

Felicity settled back into her gurney, satisfied with having been right about the fracture. She had a cup of terrible coffee in one hand and her tablet in the other.

“Use your wrist,” she instructed. “You scoop the wrist, scoop with the suture needle. Circular movements make beautiful stitches.”

“Do you mind?” Roy asked. “This would be easier without a backseat doctor.”

“John,” Felicity said, “move the tablet up a little. A little more. I want an aerial view.”

“Enough already,” Laurel said.

“If I don’t suture this, it’s going to scar,” Roy said.

“Still less painful than this conversation.”

“Digg--hold it up. Up. The other up.”

“Okay, enough.” John flipped the camera around. “I scanned those documents. Are you looking at them?”

“I’m not sure he’s getting good edges. Did you check his edges?”

“Woman!”

“Yes, yes, I’m looking at the documents.”

“Really? Cause it looks like you’re backseat doctoring.”

“Fine, hang on, let me check the…”

“Felicity?”

“Holy bejeezus fuckballs.”

“What is it?”

“The gun that killed Alderman Ford was used in a homicide twenty years ago.”

“A twenty-year old gun?” Roy sounded skeptical.

“Yeah, I think it must be a sentimental favorite. John, I need you to come get me.”

“Why?” Laurel asked. “Who’s the victim?”

“Rebecca Merlyn.”

 

* * *

 

 _Nothing wrong with my reflexes_ , Felicity thought as she more or less teleported behind Digg. Apparently, the sight of Merlyn was all it took to give her superpowers.

“Somebody please tell me how this is happening again,” she whispered into Digg’s shirt.

“Daniel Brickwell,” Merlyn said. “It seems we have a common interest.”

“You know that Brickwell killed your wife,” Laurel said.

“Her name was Rebecca,” Merlyn mansplained, launching into a small and condescending monologue.

“You followed us,” Roy interrupted. “We led you right to him.”

“And I saved your lives in the bargain. So why not continue our association?”

Felicity leaned out, just slightly, from behind John’s bulk. “You want us to team up with you?”

“I guess the question before you is whether your scorn for me outweighs your need to see Brickwell dealt with.”

“Scorn,” Felicity said immediately. “I vote scorn.”

“You have your options. Weigh them.”

 

* * *

 

“How can you even be arguing for this right now?” Felicity half-yelled at Laurel. _First, kill all the lawyers._ Shakespeare was onto something.

“Because I am actually paying attention!” Laurel half-yelled back. “Brick has the Glades under siege. He has the police running scared, he has us outnumbered and outgunned, and I am not saying let’s give him a glass costume case of his own, all I am saying is let’s use him the same way he wants to use us.”

“To point him like a loaded gun at Brick.” John at least looked skeptical.

“Exactly.”

“You can’t use people like Malcolm,” Felicity said. “They’re rabid dogs--they cannot obey, they cannot play along, they can only bite. There is another way to do this.”

Then Roy appeared. He’d gone upstairs for air, apparently per Sin’s theory, jizzed his actual brains out. Metaphorically, if not literally.

“There is no other way,” He said. “Oliver’s gone, and there's only so much the four of us can do. I just found this out, but the night of the siege, Malcolm saved Thea's life. He didn't have an ulterior motive, he didn't have an agenda. He just wanted to protect what he cared about. He cares about this city. He just went about it in a completely unimaginable way. So just like Thea did the night of the siege, we need him.”

“He doesn’t care,” Felicity said coldly. Roy of all people... “He can’t care. Do we need to go over the list of Malcolm’s victims? Including Robert? Tommy? There is not a single reality in which Oliver would allow this.”

“Well, Oliver isn’t here anymore. And we need to stop pretending like he is. We need to make decisions on our own. I genuinely have no idea how else we’re supposed to stop Brick.”

“And I genuinely don’t know how we live with ourselves if we go about doing it this way!”

“So how does this work? Do we vote?” He was maddeningly calm.

“Scorn,” Felicity repeated, and slammed her hand down on the desk.  


* * *

 

Paging the nearest fascist to the courtesy phone.

THIS LITTLE PIGGY: Is this who I think it is?

I don’t know. Who do you think it is?

THIS LITTLE PIGGY: Of course.

THIS LITTLE PIGGY: Are you okay? Are you safe?

We don’t have a lot of time.

But you should get down here.

THIS LITTLE PIGGY: To the hospital?

To the Glades.

There’s gonna be a rumble.

Bring your switchblade.

THIS LITTLE PIGGY: Are you high?

I should be so lucky.

 

* * *

 

“Feels like recess,” Felicity said, bouncing on the balls of her feet eagerly. “And we’re about to fight the school bully.”

“It’s quiet out there,” Ilmari observed. They were standing just inside the ER entrance, flanked by Palmer Tech security. They had been at a higher level of readiness for the last hour, as they waited for the Laurel’s plan to be put into motion. No one knew the details, except Felicity. But everyone in the hospital now knew she had the hookup with the SCPD as well as the less official keepers of the peace. She hadn’t said anything, but she didn’t work with many slow thinkers.

“It’s about to be not so quiet.” She put her phone away and readjusted the strap of her messenger bag medical kit. On a separate bandage bandolier she had strung four rolls of masking tape: green, yellow, red, and black. There was a sharpie as well, and an extra tucked into her ponytail. She was wearing her scrub bottoms and her last clean shirt, a long-sleeved tee that read: YOU KNOW NOTHING, JON SNOW.

“The police?” he asked hopefully. “Or...our friend?”

“Neither.” Felicity opened her mouth to elaborate, but was cut off.

“Red! The blood of angry men!” belted a very powerful, very familiar soprano.

“No,” she breathed. “No!”

“Yes,” Kanerva said. “She stumbled in about twenty minutes ago, smelling like peach schnapps.”

“Black! The dark of ages past!”

“Incredible.” Felicity shook her head. “I thought she had hepatitis. I thought she died?”

“That was the rumor, but the reports, as they say, were exaggerated.”

“Red! A world about to dawn!”

Ilmari sighed.

“Unbelievable. I’m not even mad. It’s actually...kind of a relief. She’s unsinkable.”

“Black! The night that ends at last!”

Magda, in addition to a liver made of titanium, had the most dramatic sense of timing Felicity had ever seen. That was when the screaming started, a block or so away, and the first casualties began trickling in. Kanerva disappeared back into the hospital to scrub while Felicity and the guards remained. Discreetly, she turned on her bluetooth comm to monitor the situation. At this point, she could tune her brain in and out fairly easily.

Since there were no emergency services at the moment, there were only walking wounded. Most of those, she tagged green and sent into the waiting area. A few orange, mostly head wounds, were directed to gurneys. There weren’t any reds or blacks yet, for the simple reason that they couldn’t arrive under their own power.

“Ted?” she heard Laurel’s voice in her ear. “Ted!”

“Shit,” Felicity muttered, looking around her, and snapping on a fresh pair of gloves.

“Felicity!” Laurel screamed. “I need you! Felicity!”

“Tucker!” Felicity yelled. Intern B came running. “Here.” She shoved the masking tape at him.

“But I’m just--”

“You stayed,” she said firmly. “You’ve been promoted.” Stepping out into the night, she reached into her purse and pulled out a small revolver.

“Are you packing heat?” Intern B asked, horrified.

“Get back in the goddam hospital. Also, no one says packing heat.”

“How was I supposed to know?” he muttered, retreating back to the safety of the front doors.

Felicity took off at a jog in the direction of the melee. She tapped her earpiece. “Canary, I’m en route. What’s happening?”

“It’s Ted.” Laurel sounded genuinely frightened. Felicity forgot sometimes that civilians weren’t used to gore, especially civilians new to the vigilante gig.

“I need you to be more specific.”

“Brickwell--I think he kicked him to death.”

“Don’t move him!”

“I already rolled him over.”

“Oh, for--don’t move him anymore.” She’d reached the scene of what looked like either a riot or one of the better bar fights from her childhood. Somewhere out there were her people “I’m almost there. Wait, I see you. Laurel--duck!”

Laurel ducked. She hooked her leg behind her assailant’s and dropped him quickly to the ground. But it had left the prone Wildcat totally exposed. One of Brick’s men was coming at him with a club to finish what Brick had started.

“Stop!” Felicity raised her little pea-shooter and aimed for center mass.

“You can’t shoot me,” he said. “You’re a doctor.”

“Take one more step towards my patient, farshtukener, and find out!”

He took one more step. Felicity shot him in the thigh and the goon fell right over.

“Oh shit.” Laurel sounded concerned.

“Get the stretcher out of the van and I’ll work on Ted.”

“Felicity, you should go--”

“It’s a drop gun, I’m wearing clean gloves, you’re the only witness, and no one will ever see these clothes again. We’re good. Go.” Felicity dropped the gun, kicked it into the nearest storm drain, and knelt beside Ted. “Hello, Mr. Grant. I’m Dr. Smoak.”

“Oliver?” Laurel asked.

“Focus!” Felicity snapped, completely insulated from everything but the primary survey. She stayed there until the first ambulances had arrived and saw Grant safely loaded into one. Later, she’d watch the speech on YouTube and sneer.

 

* * *

 

There was definitely GSR on her scrubs and t-shirt, but Felicity couldn’t be arsed to change at this point. Also, she was out of clothes to wear, but she didn’t want to go home for the first time in a week to change and miss Oliver’s return. It was remarkably anticlimactic.

“Sorry that I didn’t come by sooner. I wanted to check in on Thea.”

Felicity levitated out of her chair and more or less tackle-hugged him, pulling back immediately when she felt him wince.

“It’s okay,” he whispered, pulling her back in. “I’m okay.”

“Merlyn told us you were killed,” John said.

“I was close. I’m sorry that I didn’t reach out sooner, but I wasn’t in a...cell service area You kept the city together. Saved the glades. Well done.” Oliver approached the sword, neatly cleaned now, on their work table.

“It’s a gift from Malcolm Merlyn,” John explained. “He went looking for you.”

“It’s Ra’s al Ghul’s, right?”

“Yep.”

“So what are we going to do about him?” Roy asked. “I mean, if he finds out about Thea--”

“Merlyn and I are working on that.”

“Sorry.” Felicity blinked. “Did you say: Merlyn and I are working on that?”

“I need to know how to defeat Ra’s. Merlyn has the--”

“Stop. ” Felicity held her hand up. “Merlyn loaded your sister like a gun and pointed her at Sara and pulled the trigger.”

“Felicity--”

“Right. Fuck this. I’m going back to work. I’m glad you’re not dead.”

She hurried up the stairs and paused in the alley only long enough to wipe at her eyes. It was plenty of time for him to catch up.

“Felicity.”

“‘Fuck this’ really means ‘fuck off.’”

“I’m sorry.”

“Be specific.”

“What?”

“What are you sorry about this time? Leaving again or running into the open and bloody arms of Malcolm Merlyn?” She held her hand up to stop him approaching.

“That’s not why you’re upset.”

“Don’t gaslight _me_ , motherfucker!” It exploded out of her and ricocheted around the alley.

Oliver looked shocked. She took a step back and a deep breath. It was important to her, very important, that she make herself heard right here and right now.

“I may be a moron. I mean, tonight’s events clearly show how stupid I actually am. But I do know exactly why I’m upset.” Felicity held up her index finger. “A, Malcolm Merlyn. He’s a disease vector and he only lives by jumping from host to host! He’s...fucking typhus. As soon as one body cools, it’s onto the next. It’s how he lives. You can’t work with typhus. You can’t learn from typhus. Typhus just kills people as fast as it can. I know you’re a little more comfortable in the morally gray areas than I am, but, Oliver. He killed Tommy and Sara and your _father_. And five hundred and two other people who did nothing except breathe in his vicinity.”

“He can teach--”

“He can’t, Oliver. He can’t. He can only kill people. And he will kill more of us if you let him.”

Oliver was silent.

“Right, well. B, the part when you left again. I deluded myself into thinking that you weren’t a leaver. But you are. You clearly always have been. You left Laurel to get on your family’s boat. You left us and Thea after the Undertaking to go back to Craphole Island and build man-traps. And you left us and Thea again this time to get in a pissing contest with an ur-assassin. And I…” She took a long and shaky breath. “I am the girl who always gets left.”

“Felicity--”

“I always get left. You wouldn’t know how it feels, because you’re always the leaver, but it feels terrible. You told me you loved me and then you left. But that’s not what love is, Oliver. Love is staying. Love is standing your ground. Which makes me think maybe you’ve never really loved anyone. And maybe I haven’t been loved very much anyway, but I do know the difference.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It would be weird to text him, right? This is Felicity, remember me, last week I told you that you’d never loved anyone. Say, are you dead? Please answer ASAP so I can go back to sleep. j/k never sleeping again.

_ Woman always stands just where the man’s shadow falls, so that he is liable to confuse the two. _

-Carl Jung

 

**Starling, 2015**

“I can fix this,” she said in her dream. “Hold still, Oliver, I can fix this.”

There was blood pouring from his side and his mouth. The problem was that it was snowing and it kept snowing. She was knocking snowflakes away from him, trying to keep him from being buried. But as soon as she took her hands away from his side, hemorrhaged again. When she put her hands against his side, the snow covered his face and he couldn’t breathe.

“I can fix this,” she said again, but soon he was dead, and lying in a four poster bed in the Queen Mansion. Outside, it snowed, but the fireplace was crackling. 

“Don’t worry,” Felicity said. “You’ll feel better once your feet are warm.”

 

* * *

 

She woke up swinging, for the third time since Oliver had returned. For a moment, she thought she might actually vomit. It passed, but the sick feeling remained. She leaned over and turned her light on and grabbed her phone. It would be weird to text him, right?  _ This is Felicity, remember me, last week I told you that you’d never loved anyone. Say, are you dead? Please answer ASAP so I can go back to sleep. j/k never sleeping again. _ She scrolled through her very short list of favorites list before hitting call.

“Hello?”

“Fetter?”

“Felicity, what’s wrong? Are you alright?”

“Nothing. I’m fine--I just. I had a bad dream.”

“Hmm.” She heard him grumble and click his lamp on. “Was it the one about your parents?”

“No, it was about my...Oliver.”

“Ah.”

“What does that mean? Ah?”

“I was in love once,” Fetter said conversationally. “With a dancer.”

“Fetter!”

“Not a Las Vegas dancer,” he admonished. “A woman with the New York City Ballet.”

“Oh.” Felicity balled up her hand and hit herself in the forehead. “What happened to her?”

“She threw herself in front of a subway train.”

“Holy shit!”

“Language.”

“Fetter!”

“She was very troubled,” he said, in the same conversational tone. “But I learned something very important.”

“What?”

“What?”

“What did you learn from her?” 

“Oh. That no one can ever really save another person. Not for long. We all have to save ourselves. Or we die.”

“Well. I feel better.”

“You want I should make you feel better, call back in the morning.” And then he hung up.

Felicity sighed. She looked up out of her small loft window. There was nothing but cloud cover and the reflected light of the city.  She went to go get a glass of water and some fuzzy socks. Her feet were freezing.

 

* * *

 

“It’s not that simple,” Keith Mars said.

“Sure it is,” Veronica replied. “The hero is the one that stays and the villain is the one that splits.”

Felicity’s phone rang. Sighing, she picked up.

“We need you,” John said.

“Try unplugging it and plugging it back in,” she said, muting the TV.

“It’s Laurel--Zytle got her.” 

“What’s your ETA?” Felicity was already off the sofa and hunting for shoes. Now she could hear the noise of the van in the background, rattling around street corners at a truly unsafe rate of speed.

“Ten minutes. It’s bad.”

“I’ll be there. Tell Oliver to hang saline. I don’t want to give her anything else until she’s there. Starting taking vitals.”

Felicity practically threw herself down the stairs at the back of her apartment. She was in her repaired MIT hoodie and sweatpants at least, and not treating the Glades to the sight of her pedaling madly towards a club in footie pajamas. What she was not doing was maintaining situational awareness, which is why she burst in the back door to come face to face with Thea Queen.

“Oh shit.”

“It’s cool, I know.” As usual, Thea looked doe-eyed, model pretty, and bored.

“That I’m...here...for your...beverages?”

“No, I know about the basement.” She was looking at Felicity like she suspected brain damage.

“Which is where you keep the beverages.” Apparently Felicity’s lying-to-cops skill did not extend this far. She was just trying to keep the lid on the can of worms now.

“Ollie’s the Arrow, Roy’s his sidekick, Malcolm’s an assassin, the basement is a lair of some kind, you help out and that’s why I keep seeing you around here even though you never actually party.”

“I get nervous in crowds.”

“Whatever.” To her credit, Thea didn’t actually roll her eyes as she walked away. 

That was going to be fun damage control. Felicity rushed down into the lair, kicking chairs and equipment out of her way, dragging her gurney to the best overhead lighting. She pulled out what she thought she might need: more saline, clonidine, meclizine, and an emesis basin. Then she pulled her hair back off her face, adjusted her glasses, and snapped on fresh gloves. There wasn’t long to wait.

“She’s seizing,” Oliver said. He was carrying her down the stairs. Felicity went back into the drawer for diazepam, but clocked Laurel’s bloody nose immediately.

“How hard was she hit?”

“What?” he asked.

“How hard was she hit? In the head.”

“I don’t know,” Oliver said, looking confused.

“Who saw?” Felicity asked, looking around at three very blank, faintly guilty faces. “Guys, is she bleeding inside her skull or is this a side effect of the drug?”

“We weren’t there.” Roy was the one to admit to it.

“She was out fighting Zytle alone?”

“Yes,” John said.

“Regular fucking brain trust around here,” Felicity mumbled and climbed onto the gurney. They’d moved her damn step-stool, so she had to get up next to Laurel to see into her eyes. She pulled her penlight out to check her pupils, but Laurel’s hand reached up and caught Felicity’s face, gently.

“Sara?”

“Yeah,” Felicity said softly, sweeping the light back and forth. “Yeah, it’s me.”

“I am so sorry. I am so sorry. Sara!”

“Pupils equal and reactive,” Felicity said. “Oliver--the diazepam.”

“I am so--” Laurel winced as Oliver pushed the drug through the IV portal.

“I forgive you,” Felicity murmured, leaning over Laurel’s masked face. “I know. And I forgive you.” She had no idea if Laurel heard her, but the seizure stopped.

“Ollie?” Down here, in this light, Thea looked much younger, much less worldly. “I--I’m sorry. I just wanted to talk.”

“You need to go back upstairs,” Oliver ordered. “Now!”

“Hey!” Roy yelled right back. “Don’t talk to her like that. You brought her in; you don’t have the right to kick her out.”

“Fucking A,” Felicity muttered to herself, climbing off the gurney and continuing to examine Laurel. She wasn’t getting into the Queen family business, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t root for Roy.

“I’m not. I’m protecting her,” said Felicity’s favorite caveman.

“By telling her what to do?” Roy wasn’t backing down. “Work with Malcolm Merlyn, let him get his hooks in deeper--”

“Enough. She’s my sister.”

“She makes her own choices, Oliver!”

“It’s okay,” Thea said, eyes drawn towards the figure on the gurney. “I just--just, is Laurel okay? Is she a part of this, too?”

Can of worms: wide open.

“She’s going to be fine,” Oliver said, calm and cool. “I promise. Just… Please go back upstairs.” He turned back to Roy who hadn’t retreated in the least.  “What the hell was that?” Oliver asked, his tone menacing.

“You think you’re the only person who can stand up for Thea?” Roy asked, matching him.

“I’m trying to figure out why you’re standing up to me!”

“Alright,” John said, eternally reasonable. “Maybe we just need to throttle back.”

“No,” Felicity said, snapping her gloves off. Damned if she’d let these goyim push this argument back under the rug. “We need this. Oliver, you left. Merlyn told us you were dead. So we did what we had to do. And we did it without you.”

“Fine! I’m back now!”

“Well, good for you. But while you were on walkabout, Roy and Laurel and Digg were keeping the peace on their own. You don’t get to come back here and question how they did it.”

Oliver looked around the room.  _ See?  _ Felicity lifted her chin. _ It’s not just me _ .

“Let me know if there’s any change in her condition,” he said, and put the empty syringe back on the counter behind him.

 

* * *

 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa,” Felicity rushed over as Laurel tried to sit up. “Slow your roll there.” Felicity helped her, piling some pillows behind her on the bed to keep her from falling backwards. Then she put a basin in Laurel’s hands, just in case. She looked like shit. “How are you feeling?”

“When Zytle hit me with the vertigo. I saw Sara,” Laurel said, eyes unfocused. “She was alive. And she was calling me a fraud. I was crazy to think I was fit to wear Sara’s jacket. Much less follow in her footsteps.”

“Ah. It sounds like the new formula. It manipulates the amygdala,” Felicity explained, trying not to let her pity show, “shows you things that your brain fears.”

“The new formula.”

“Oliver won’t tell you this, but he’s been dosed three times.” Felicity tilted her head. “That I know of.”

“Oh.”

“The last time, this fall, it was the new formula. It shook him up, too.” Felicity reached for a can of cold ginger ale and passed it to her patient, who sipped cautiously. “Listen, this is not my first time trying to give advice to vigilantes, but you should still take it with a grain of salt. So. Laurel. When you came in, you thought I was Sara. You kept telling me you were sorry.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“I don’t remember what I said either,” Felicity admitted. “Yeah, I got dosed in that whole flu vaccine clusterfuck last year. I still can’t look at certain flavors of Gatorade. Look. You’re never going to be a Canary like Sara. You two are so different, I honestly wouldn’t have believed you were sisters if I hadn’t seen your mom’s hospital records.”

“Sorry--you’ve seen my mom’s hospital records?”

“Oh. Well, I’ve seen everyone’s hospital records. That’s not the point, though. The point is you and Sara may have this suit in common, but maybe that’s all you need to have in common. Oh are we--we’re hugging. We’re hugging friends now?”

“Thank you,” Laurel said.

 

* * *

 

“I was worried.”

Felicity startled--she hadn’t heard Ilmari approach her.

“Sorry,” he said.

“No, it’s okay.” She pushed her hands back into the pockets of her white coat. “You were worried?”

“When I saw that Werner Zytle had escaped custody. I was worried we were headed for another vertigo epidemic, like two years ago.”

“Me, too.”

“They say the Canary was there. They say that she’s a different blonde woman.”

“Maybe?” Felicity hedged, trying to remember who knew what about whom.

He held her gaze..

“Oh, G-d, no. Ilmari, no. Look at me. Do I look like the Canary?”

“I’ve never seen the Canary.”

“I assure you, she’s in much better shape than I am. And taller, although that’s not hard. But this ass, those pants, never gonna happen.”

The corner of his mouth twitched.

“Were you making a joke?” She turned and looked at him. “You were. You were making a joke. I don’t know if I’m offended or proud.”

“I’m an attending. You should be appropriately cowed.”

“Maybe next time.”

“Are you alright, Felicity?”

“I’m fine.”

"I'm not being an attending right now. I'm asking as a friend."

"I am...hanging in there. I'm just tired, you know? That's all."


	13. Chapter 13

_My dad had limitations. That’s what my good-hearted mom always told us. He had limitations, but he meant no harm. It was kind of her to say, but he did do harm._

-Gillian Flynn, _Gone Girl_

 

**Starling, 2015**

UNKNOWN: Hello, is this Dr. Smoak?

It depends.

Who is this?

UNKNOWN: Jerry.

Jerry who?

UNKNOWN: Mr. Palmer’s assistant Jerry.

Oh--okay?

UNKNOWN: I’m reaching out for your assistance.

I don’t know what you’ve heard.

But I don’t treat people off the books.

UNKNOWN: No, this is assistance of a different nature. Not emergent.

Jerry, I have to go help a guy with rebar through his thigh.

But by all means, do go on.

 

* * *

 

Felicity was loitering at the top of the stairs when Diggle emerged. He’d hung behind, presumably to try and talk Oliver out of physically torturing Nyssa for information.

“John,” she whispered. “What the fuck?”

“I know.”

“I mean what the actual fuck? Is he down there torturing her?”

“Felicity--”

“I have to go back down there. I can’t let this--I can’t--John.”

“Look, Nyssa knows she’s playing a dangerous game.”

“John Thomas Diggle.”

“I know.”

“If he finds out where their secret treehouse is, he’s actually going to go there.”

“I know.”

“John.”

“I know!”

“Should I put him on the no fly list?”

“No, I--wait, can you put people on the no fly list?”

“You don’t really want me to answer that.”

“Let me talk to him.”

Oliver emerged.

“Nanda Parbat is hidden beneath the Hindu Kush.”

“That was quick,” John observed. Felicity hung close to him.

“She wanted to tell me. Thinks I’m going to die there.”

“She’s not the only one,” Felicity said. _That was supposed to be an inside thought, not an out loud thought._ Various arguments against his going were tried, all failed. Finally, Digg asked for the room.

Felicity stayed. The boys looked at her.

“Yeah, I know you didn’t mean me.” She cleared her throat. “Look, I know. I know you say this is about Thea, but. You had a decent dad. Digg, decent dad. Laurel and Sara, decent dad. But some of us didn’t get good dads.”

She took another step closer and took her hand in his.

“Oliver. Not all fathers are worth saving. Some daughters are better off without them.”

Then she let him go.

 

* * *

 

JERRY: Mr. Palmer hasn’t been in the office for a week.

JERRY: According to the doorman, he hasn’t left his room in days.

JERRY: Not even to work out.

Send me the doorcodes.

I’m on my way.

You’re paying for this cab.

JERRY: Dr. Smoak, get him back at his desk, and the board will buy you a car.

 

* * *

 

Felicity leaned on the bell and put the diaphragm of her stethoscope against the door. It was definitely ringing inside. Well, something was. Did she have the chops to crack his lock? Probably not on short notice. Could she guess the code? Easy, it would be Anna’s birthday. Google would bring up her obituary and give her that.

“Please don’t make me google Anna’s obituary,” she muttered, leaning harder. Finally, the door slid open, onto a beautiful modern apartment with floor to ceiling windows.

“Hello?” Palmer said, looking confused as she replaced the stethoscope into her messenger bag.

“It lives.” She looked him up and down. Oh shit. He hadn’t shaved. And the scruff looked good on him. He looked less boyish, less boy scout. More...like Oliver.

“Felicity?”

“So they tell me.” She ducked under his arm and shouldered past him. “Do you know what happens to Palmer Technologies stock when Palmer goes AWOL?”

“No, what?”

“I have no idea. Jerry was trying to tell me, but frankly, I didn’t care enough to listen. Palmer, look at you. You’re...well, the visual isn’t bad, but the smell is appalling. It’s like...microwaved hummus?”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“You’re suffering from VOM.”

“Sorry?”

“Vigilante Onset Monomania. Lucky for you, I am literally the only doctor qualified to treat it.” Right on cue, Palmer’s computer beeped peevishly.

“What the hell?”

“Oh dear. I do hope you’re not locked out of the Palmer Tech server.”

“You did this?”

“No, my timing is just that good. Of course I did this.”

“You can hack?”

“I had to phone a friend for help, but teamwork makes the dream work. Right?”

“Felicity, unlock this server.”

“Here’s the thing,” she continued blithely. “VOM on its own isn’t fatal. But it often presents comorbidly with cranial rectosis.”

“What?”

“Your head’s up your ass, Palmer. But, unlike other patient under my care, it’s not too late for you.”

“Felicity--”

“The standard of care for cranial rectosis involves nutrition, hygiene, and sleep. Now, your server is going to be locked up for at least six hours. You can spend that time either A, trying to break into your own computers, or B, you can bathe, eat, and sleep. Preferably in that order.”

“I see.”

“It’s your choice, but again, the smell emanating from you, it’s like...German potato salad that’s been left in in the backseat of a car on a summer day.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“You’re getting the picture.”

“I think I’d be mad if I wasn’t so tired.”

“Shower. Eat. Then we’re going to bed. Fuck. No. Not fuck. You’re going to bed. I’m going to...probably throw myself out a window.”

“You could come to bed, too.”

“Palmer.”

“I only meant that you look tired. And hungry. Although you smell lovely.”

Felicity wavered, shifting her weight between her feet. “I could eat. You got any of those croissants?”

“I’ll make a call.”

“And shower.”

“And shower.”

Palmer emerged twenty minutes later, smelling like fancy but manly body wash. He was wearing a t-shirt and flannel pajama pants. He had shaved, which was a damn shame. Felicity looked at him, with a clinical eye, and noticed the loose-limbed, gracefully way he moved. It was nothing like the way Oliver carried himself, both fauve and cautious. She shook off the memory and focused on the enormous basket of baked goods that Palmer was carrying in through his front door. Croissants!

“Is it a cheat day?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “Jerry didn’t say.”

“Jerry. Of course.”

“He promised me a free car if I get you back to work.”

“Well, now I have to go.” Palmer frowned.

“I think that was the idea. Is there jam in there? Oh, hallelujah.”

They spent a companionable twenty minutes or so, gorging on French pastries and coffee. Palmer must have eaten three croissants to every one of hers, and he was still going when Felicity surrendered. No wonder Jerry was worried. Finally, he fell back against his tasteful, neutral sectional couch cushion and sighed.

“Now can we go to bed?” he asked.

“Funny, Palmer.”

“I mean it, you look...not great.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m not being...Felicity, you know I’m not being…”

“I know.”

“Something is eating you from the inside.”

She looked at him sharply.

“You made me shower, you made me eat, now I’m paying attention again.”

“My mistake.” She got to her feet.

“Wait--Felicity, please.” He stood up and reached for her arm, barely brushing it before she jumped away, knocking into a side table. “Whoa. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. It’s me. I’m just easily startled.”  She held her elbow where it had hit the wooden side table.

“I didn’t mean to startle you.” Bless him, he took a full step back.

“I should go.”

“I meant it,” he said. “I’ll take the sofa.”

“They don’t make sofas in your size.”

“You can take the sofa.”

Felicity looked down at it. It was deep, wide, and plush. There was a throw there that looked suspiciously like the one in her loft. It was a bad idea. What if she had a nightmare? What if he tried to wake her up and she decked him? What if she drooled on the fancy material? What if he saw her sleep face? What if she got a solid five hours of sleep?

“Okay,” she said.

She didn’t have a nightmare. She didn’t punch Palmer. She didn’t even drool on the fancy sofa. However, she did wake up to the sound of Palmer’s doorbell. Only half awake, Felicity. heard him hurrying barefoot across the hall to open it. Frowning, she swung to her feet and pulled the cashmere throw up over her shoulders. Carefully, she leaned out into the hallway, trying to see who it was. Jerry, probably.

“Young man.”

Oh no. Her entire body broke out in goosebumps and she was wide, wide awake.

“Fetter!” Felicity very quickly ran forward and stepped between the two of them, throwing her arms wide like there wasn’t two entire feet of Palmer above her head that Fetter could still shoot at.

“Felicity, who is this person?”

“Palmer, this is my Uncle Duvid. Fetter, this is Ray Palmer, my boss.”

“Hello!” Palmer offered his hand enthusiastically. “A pleasure.”

“Don’t hurt him,” Felicity said, ignoring Palmer. “It’s not what it looks like.”

“What do you mean what it looks like?” Palmer asked, hand still extended.

“It looks like your ‘boss’ is taking advantage of a reprehensible power imbalance,” Fetter said, looking at the hand with distaste.

“We’re going,” Felicity said, running back in quickly for her bag and handing the blanket back to Palmer. “Thank you for the croissants.”

“I’ll be back,” Fetter promised.

“Nice meeting you,” Palmer said, still polite, if somewhat confused. “Hey, what’s the password?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“O...kay.”

“No, that’s the password. Underscores, not spaces.” Felicity hooked her arm through her uncle’s and steered him towards the elevators. “I will put you back in Russian prison, and so help me, it will be above the Arctic circle this time.”

“You sound just like your mother when you talk like that.”

“How did you even find me?”  She jammed the lobby button, praying for the doors to close faster.  
He only raised a graying eyebrow.

“Why are you here?”

“I can’t visit my only niece?”

“You’ve never visited me before.”

“I was in prison before”

“It was a simpler time.” Felicity said, trying to suppress a smile.

“Oh yes, very funny. Me, languishing in a Russian prison. With nothing to read but Pravda and Dostoyevsky. I didn’t know whether to kill the capitalists or kill myself.”

Felicity snorted.

“She laughs, my heartless niece. So beautiful, so cold.”

“Be a good uncle and I’ll give you something British to read when we get home.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m glad you’re not dead,” Felicity said, as the door to Oliver’s loft swung open. “Again. But I may never forgive you for this.”
> 
> “I didn’t know who else to call.”

_ For silver--the crucible, _

_ For gold--the furnace, _

_ And the Lord tests the mind. _

-Proverbs 17:3, JPS Translation

  
**Starling, 2015**

 

DIGG: We’re back

Both of you? Alive?

Good working order?

DIGG: In perfect condition.

How?

Why?

How?

DIGG: You’ll have to ask Oliver.

Oh yeah.

I’ll get right on that.

I’ll put it down on my schedule, just after I cure death.

Cure death, have frank and open conversation with Oliver, attend flying pig convention.

DIGG: Speaking of which, he needs you at his place.

DIGG: And you’re not going to like it.

 

* * *

 

“I’m glad you’re not dead,” Felicity said, as the door to Oliver’s loft swung open. “Again. But I may never forgive you for this.”

“I didn’t know who else to call.”

“I mean it, Oliver.” Then she shoved past him.

“Thank you for coming,” he said to her back.

Felicity stalked into the living room and looked down. Someone had indeed beat the shit out of Malcolm Merlyn and, sadly, it hadn’t been her. She regarded the unconscious man on the sofa and swallowed bile. Then she knelt next to him.

“It wasn’t fair to ask this of me.” She dropped her messenger bag to the floor and began rummaging, pulling on clean gloves and her stethoscope. “It wasn’t right.”

“Tell me about it,” Thea said languidly from the kitchen counter. She was drinking what looked like an excellent Bloody Mary. She slid noiselessly off the granite and sauntered, leaning somewhat to the left, towards her bedroom.

“I didn’t--”

“You didn’t know who else to call, because I’m the only doctor you know, and you knew I couldn’t say no to you.”

“Felicity.” He was standing behind the back of the sofa.

“Shut up. And go away.”

Oliver did.

“So,” Felicity turned back to her patient. “Do you have any known allergies?”

“Dr. Smoak,” Malcolm said hoarsely. “Thank you.”

“This will be a lot easier for both of us if you speak when spoken to, and only answer questions you’re asked. Do you have any known allergies?”

“No.”

Felicity continued her exam. She had the power to turn off her higher feelings, her disgust. Most doctors could, and all ER doctors did. Otherwise they’d never be able to work in emergency medicine. And she, of course, had extra experience with disassociation. So Felicity pulled away from her doctor self and hid out while someone else examined, sutured, bandaged, braced, and re-dressed Malcolm Merlyn.

“Fine work, doctor.”

“Oh?” The conversation was happening at one remove.  “I’d be careful what you say to me while you’re incapacitated, Mr. Merlyn.”

“I’m sorry. For what happened to you. The undertaking.”

“No you’re not,” she said calmly. “You’re saying what you think I want to hear, what you think will work on me. But you’re not my first psychopath.”

“You’re a very resilient person.”

“What can I say?” She stood up and slung her bag over her shoulder. “I guess Smoak women are harder to kill than Merlyn men.”

“Felicity--” Oliver tried again.

“Don’t talk to me,” she snapped. “And don’t ever use me or my oath like this again. I don’t care if he dies of septicemia in the night. Don’t call me.”

She stalked back outside, so mad she felt like her hair might catch fire at any moment. She was so mad she didn’t even feel the lactic acid in her muscles as she pedaled away from the loft like a machine. By the time she got to the clinic and stalked up the stairs, she was soaked with sweat and breathing like a steam engine.

“Good heavens,” Fetter said. He was in the kitchen, chopping celery for tuna salad. “Are you training for something?”

“I just did something so disgusting I may still hurl.”

“What did you do?”

Felicity sat down and told him. All of it. Everything from the night that she’d verbally abused the Vigilante outside her favorite corner store until half an hour ago when she’d put her hands on Malcolm Merlyn and hadn’t murdered him, which would undoubtedly have made the world a better place.

“Mmm. I think we might need a beer with lunch.”

“No shit.”

“Language.” Fetter put a bottle of Elysian in front of her and a plate with a tuna fish sandwich and a sliced apple. Take away the beer, and it could have been any lunch they’d ever had together. 

“I can’t believe he did that,” she repeated, shoving an apple slice in her face.

“What? Asked you to do your job?”

“Whose side are you on?” she demanded, around the apple.

“The angels’.”

“Ugh. Is life supposed to be this difficult all the time?” she asked.

“If your life were meant to be easy you would have been born a goy and your mother would have called you...Tiffany.”

“Oh G-d, don’t even joke about that.” She sighed and took a long drink of beer and a bite of apple. “Is this why you came back?”

“I came back to visit you.”

“Fetter.”

Now it was his turn to sigh. “You always woke me up, when you were younger, and you had a nightmare.”

“I knew it. I knew this was about the dream.”

“You always woke me up, at least after the first few weeks,” he went on. “And then we’d turn the TV on and sit up and watch M*A*S*H.”

“I thought we stayed up late to watch it?”

“Not usually,” he said. “Usually you went to sleep and woke up, and that’s how we ended up watching M*A*S*H.”

“That’s funny, that I remember it wrong.”

“You remember it how you need to remember it,” Fetter said and cleared his throat. “Well. You always woke me up. And when you called, I thought, how many times you weren’t able to wake me up. How many nights I spent abroad, or in prison.”

“With Dostoyevsky.”

“With Dostoyevsky, yes. So now I am here.” He looked down at at his sandwich, looking judgmental.

“Thank you for coming.”

“Eat your sandwich. You look thin.” He waited until she had taken a bite. “Now, which one of these men is giving you these nightmares?”

 

* * *

 

Felicity seated herself in the hospital cafeteria, making doubly sure that her back was to the wall and she could see all the exits. She scanned the room one more time, then took a seat.

“You look a little jumpy,” Digg said, sounding amused.

“Yeah, well, there’s a semi-retired hit man out there looking to protect me from all the men in my life doing me wrong.”

“Your uncle is in town?”

“And any dude seen with me is at risk of death. Don’t smirk. There’s no ring on your finger yet. You might as well have a target painted on the back of your head.”

“How about I promise not to do you wrong, and you promise to warn me if my assassination is imminent.”

“Fair enough. You’re probably the only man in my life safe from him, anyway.”

“We have to talk about Oliver.”

“He, yes, he needs to watch his six. Fetter’s about ready to gut him like a trout.”

“And why is that?” Diggle asked, looking wise and smug.

“Oh, shut up. What am I doing here, anyway?”

“Right. Well. I found out why we left Nanda Parbat alive.” All trace of levity was gone now. “Ra’s has chosen his successor. It’s apparently a title and a name. He wants Oliver to become the next Ra’s al Ghul.”

“Like...the Dread Pirate Roberts?”

“Apparently.”

“And Oliver told him to go to hell, right? To shove it?”

“I think he may be a little more ambivalent than that.”

Felicity groaned. “John.”

“You ever heard of the hurt locker?”

“I think it was the kind of movie I don’t watch because of the loud noises.”

“Yeah, but the title’s from army slang. It’s a small space where you’re shut in with your own pain.”

“John.” She put her elbows on the table and her head in her hands. 

"I know."

“I can’t help him. He won’t even…”

“I know.”

 

* * *

 

“Your uncle seems nice,” Palmer said, as he tinkered with the elbow joint of the ATOM gauntlet.

“Yeah, sure,” she scoffed, working on the wide-ranging math on Palmer’s fancy desk blotter. “Oh no, you’re serious?”

“Well, nice to you.”

“Just be...careful around him.” She scribbled over the doodle of a gun.

“Why?”

“No reason. How are you doing with the virtual TCP?”

“Not great.”

“I’m more concerned about the heating and cooling loads, with that much metal involved. My physics isn’t that good, but I’m concerned. Heatstroke is a terrible deterrent to vigilantism. This last July, during the heatwave...well. The less said about that the better.”

Oliver was in the doorway, raising his eyebrow.

“Oh!” Felicity half-jumped, half-fell out of her desk chair. “What are you doing here? I mean. Really, what are you doing here?”

“Nice to see you again, Mr. Palmer,” Oliver said smoothly, gracefully ignoring her and shaking hands with Palmer.

“Likewise. And please call me Ray.”

“Okay. Ray.” Oliver half-smiled the way he did when he actually wanted to jump off a building. “May I borrow Felicity for a few minutes, please?”

“I’m not a thing,” she said. “Can’t borrow me.”

“Uh, absolutely,” Palmer said, and stepped back into his private office for a moment.

“Still not a thing,” she muttered mulishly.

“Sorry,” Oliver said. “I didn’t mean--and I should have called ahead.”

“It’s fine.”

“I wanted to apologize. For Merlyn.”

“No, I was...you don’t owe me anything,” Felicity said. “You asked me to do my job. I’m sorry I was a pain in the ass while I did it.”

“You had every right--”

“I didn’t, actually. I took that oath without conditions. And you were asking me as a friend. And you are my best--one of my best friends.” Shitfuck she’d almost said it. Yeah, well, she basically had said it. Fine, Digg was a co-best-friend. That was her story and she was sticking to it.

Oliver looked slightly struck. He inhaled and exhaled. “So. We went up a new crew last night. One of them had his lips sewn shut.”

“Actually sewn shut?” What the hell would you use to sew someone’s lips shut, anyway.

“Actually sewn shut.”

“If only I had known I had that option.”

“If you’re busy--”

“Palmer’s a big boy. He can wait. You’ve got some Dark Willow action here that I don’t intend to miss.”

Felicity stepped over to one of Palmer’s consoles and opened one of her secure channels into the municipal, county, and state police systems.

“Michael Amar? His street name’s Murmur. Which, seems pretty dumb, because that still implies speech. Muffle, maybe, would be a better fit. Or Grunt. This is exactly why Cisco doesn’t let them name themselves. Anyway, apparently sewing your mouth shut helps focus your mind, but I think it also probably ends with an NG tube.”

Oliver rubbed his forehead. He looked tired and distant.

“Are you okay?”

“I handed some of Amar’s men over to Lance. He knows the Arrow knew about Sara, and didn’t tell him.”

“He’s pissed?”

“Very pissed.”

“He’s going to need time.”

“He’s right, though. I lied to him. For months. Kept something from him, and he had every right to know.”

“You were trying to respect Laurel’s wishes. It was her family, her call. He just needs time.”

“Are you okay, really?”

“I’m fine. Thanks for your help with Amar’s name.”   
  


* * *

 

“Do you always slam your door like that?” Fetter asked, looking up from her copy of  _ North and South _ .

“It’s been a long day.” Felicity said, stepping out of her sneakers.

“You don’t look like it’s over.” He closed the book and set it down the sofa.

“It’s not.” She sat down heavily next to him. “This is a pit stop before the second shift.”

“I made soup.” With a small noise of effort, he swung his arms to lever himself off the sofa. “I’ll heat some soup.”

“What kind?”

“Tortilla.”

“Yes.” Felicity gave a small fist pump. It was his best soup. Her apartment was certainly much improved, but its essential dimensions hadn’t changed. It was very easy to converse with him while he heated the soup on her fancy convection cooktop. (Fetter did not believe in microwaves.)

“So,” he said. “These dreams.”

Felicity groaned.

“Tell me, tell me. Mach shnel. You have your second shift, remember?”

“Do you ever wonder who I would be if my parents hadn’t died?”

“Oof.” Fetter stirred the soup. “Do you think about this often?”

“No, not often. No point. But sometimes… You met Palmer. He’s a good guy.”

“A good guy,” he scoffed.

“He is! He’s...he’s the reason the clinic is reopening next week. He’s the one who fixed the loft up enough so I could move back in. He’s helping me restart my domestic violence project. He’s given out so much free money in the Glades--none of these businesses would have come back without his interest free loans. And he’d date me. He took to a work dinner and even bought me a dress.”

“A dress!” Fetter dropped the spoon.

“Shit. I wasn’t going to tell you that.”

“A dress, Felicity?” He sounded like she’d knocked over a liquor store and botched the job.

“It’s a fabulous dress, too,” she went on, ignoring him out of practice. “And I feel nothing for him!”

“A sheynem dank,” Fetter muttered.

“I can’t help thinking that if I were a little less, I don’t know, damaged is such an ugly word. Battered? That’s not much better. If I were a little sunnier or more positive or just slightly less angry, maybe I could actually feel something for a good man besides nothing.”

“Three things,” Fetter said, turning off the stove. “One, Palmer is not a man. He is an overgrown boy. I know this because I watched that horrible press conference he gave and his TED talk on the YouTube on the phone you got me.”

“Fetter,” she said, but she was smiling.

“Two, yes, you have been a little battered by life. I would go so far as to say, more than most. But you are made of very stern stuff, hinteleh. Do you remember much about foster care?”

“What?” She looked up, surprised by the turn in the conversation. “Uh, no. Not much.”

“Do you remember much about your last foster home? The one before I was able to return to you?”

“Not really. I know the house flooded during the day, while we were all at school, and they had to pull all the kids out in a hurry.”

Fetter turned to her with the strangest look on his face, but a half a smile.

“What?”

“Felicity, who do you think arranged for that house to be flooded?”

“What?" And then the implication hit home. "No. No! I didn’t. I’d never.”

He chuckled. “Come and get a bowl. There is cilantro in the fridge.”

“I never flooded a house!” she protested, obeying.

“How would you know, if you don’t remember?”

Felicity opened the small fridge and stared blankly into it. She could recall nothing about the last house. She remembered coming home from school with the other kids, two boys maybe, and finding one of the social workers out front. But she did remember wallpaper. Floral and embossed and striped. In an upstairs bathroom? There was that hideous wallpaper. And a crescent wrench that she’d hidden in the toilet tank the night before.

“Oh my G-d, Fetter,” she said, letting the fridge fall shut. “I flooded that house.”

“I know,” he said mildly. “You forgot the cilantro.”

“I think he hurt the boys, the dad in that house, I think he hit them with his belt,” she said. “I think that’s why I did it. How could I not remember that?”

“You remember it how you need to remember it.” He retrieved the cilantro and set it on her tiny two-top, gesturing her to sit.. “This is just my amateur opinion, you understand. But if you were really damaged, I mean beyond repair, you would have set the house on fire while that man was asleep in his bed. Instead, you were very clever, and very careful.”

“What else am I not remembering?” she wondered.

“Nothing you need to, or else you would remember it.”

“I think that’s what they call a circular argument.”

“Eat your soup.”

“What’s the third thing?” she asked, after a moment.

“What?”   


“The third thing. You said three things.”

“Oh yes. Three. Felicity, you are the woman whose worth is far beyond rubies. You will never be happy with a guy. You require a mensch.” They ate quietly for a few moments. “Now. Tell me more about this League of Assassins.”

“Please don’t sound so excited about them. I’m sure you’re good enough to join. I’m not impugning your skill. But I thought you put all that behind you.”

“I never got to work in a costume like that.”

“You’re not getting a Hogwarts letter from Nanda Parbat. Forget it.”

 

* * *

 

Fortified by tortilla soup and Fetter’s confidence, Felicity descended the lair stairs into quiet. For a little while, she’d be alone. She tidied up her little med bay and then tended to the computer systems. Oliver was the next to arrive, silently as usual.

“Where’s Diggle?” he asked.

“Out with Roy. Doing the evening’s early purse-snatching sweep.”

“Thanks for coming.”

“Where else would I be on a night off?” she asked. “Seriously, where? I got pissed off earlier, about Merlyn. And sure, I have a science project going with Palmer. But none of that has changed my commitment.”

“Good,” he said.

“And what about your commitment? Yeah. John and I talked about your job offer. From a literal headhunter. To take his place. Which is, by the by, absolutely bananas.”

“There’s more than one path to justice.”

“Holy shit. Digg was right. You are thinking about it. Oliver. No.”

“It’s been over two years, Felicity. What have I really accomplished? My mother’s dead. Tommy. Sara. Crime’s not down. And my sister is in ten different kinds of pain right now.”

“So you run away and join the murder circus?” She shoved her hands into her hair. “I can’t even list the names of all the lives that you’ve saved, because there’s too many of those. Notably me, Laurel, Thea, Roy, come to mind. Year over year crime’s not down, but violent crime is. And one of the ten kinds of pain that your sister is in is the kind where she’s afraid she’s going to lose you, too!”

“I don’t know why I’m doing this anymore,” he finally admitted.

“Well I don’t know why you’re doing it either!” she burst out, exasperated. “Yeah, Lance is pissed. No more thank you notes from SCPD. And yeah, you and I are not a thing, but that was your choice. Multiple choices. Multiple times.” Felicity sat down in the chair. “When Merlyn told us you were dead, we all had to decide if we wanted to keep going, or not. And if we did, we had to decide why.”

“Why did you?” he asked.

“Me?” She looked down at her hands. “I wasn’t sure I would. I got the flu, and then I used it as an excuse to stay away.”

“You were sick? Didn’t you get the shot?”

“It was a spotty--you know what, that’s not the point. Anyway, I stayed away for a while. I chickened out. But then Laurel needed something. And I realized there are things down here that only I can do. I mattered down here. Anyway, now it’s your turn.”

“My turn?”

“Why are you doing this?” she whispered.

“Are we interrupting something?” Roy asked, adorably innocent.

Which was how they found out about diamond tipped bullets which were not, in fact, something you could win in a casino. They were actual diamond tipped bullets designed to shred kevlar.

“Lance isn’t picking up--he doesn’t want to talk to me either. I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but please go save those cops from the man whose confession they coerced. Ugh. I think I just threw up in my mouth a little bit.”

 

* * *

 

“Nice work.”

“Not without a few casualties, but Amar is in custody.”

“No touchdown dance?” Oh, a girl could dream.

“You know me. I don’t dance. But I do occasionally say thank you.” There was that glacier melting smile again.

“You’re welcome.”

“And you were right.”

“And I’m right, too?” This was a good night.

“I started all this because of my father, to right his wrongs. Then, it became something more. But I never stopped to think about it or about why until you asked me.”

“And what was the answer?”

“Tonight at the precinct, the only thing I could think about was those police officers. And how they were never going to make it home unless John and Roy and I did what we do. That’s why I’m doing this.”

“So you’re not going to be Head Boy for Nanda Parbat?”

“It means I’m not ready to give up on what we’re doing here.”

“Good. Because it really sucked doing it without you.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He knows,” Felicity blurted out as soon as she hit the bottom of the stairs. “I don’t want anyone else to panic. I’m doing all the panicking for us.” She dug into her messenger bag and removed her klonopin and took two.
> 
> In which Digg gets married, Palmer gets wise, and Felicity argues with handsome men.

_A bride at her second marriage does not wear a veil. She wants to see what she is getting._

-Helen Rowland

 

**Starling, 2015**

It did not escape Felicity’s notice that she had put on the dress and shoes that Oliver had bought for Moira’s welcome home party, ages ago now, but still hard to believe the matriarch was dead and buried. The dress reminded her of that night, of something nice Oliver did in apology. Of owning nice things. Of being remembered by him. She preened slightly in the mirror above her bathroom sink.

“Looks expensive,” Fetter said, appearing from nowhere. “You buy it yourself, or did some man?”

“Some man. He gave me these shoes, too,” she said dryly. “Ask me what I did to earn ‘em.”

He muttered something under his breath about a shonda and ungrateful children and elbowed her out of the way to adjust his Windsor knot. It was a nice tie, subtle and silk. Expensive silk.

“I’ve never seen you in a suit before.”

“I own lots of suits,” he said defensively.

“You own lots of Vegas suits. That’s a _suit_ suit.”

“Ask me what I did to earn it.”

“Dirty old man.”

“Nafka.”

“Fetter!”

“Oh, this word you remember?”

“Are you going to behave at this wedding? I will put you at the kids table.”

“I am only getting it out of my system.”

Her uncle continued to get it out of his system all the way to venue. Then, to Felicity’s immense relief, he transformed himself into a genial and appropriate wedding guest. Until Oliver arrived and approached Diggle. It was clear from his posture that the groom was peeved. Now, Fetter’s focus was razor sharp.

“The best man is late,” he muttered under his breath.

“This is on time for him.” Felicity sipped her champagne. “Early, even.”

“I’m only saying, he is supposed to be standing up for his friend. To be with him in his time of need. And here he is, only just now arriving. I bet they took pictures without him. Tell me, can you photoshame him in?”

“It’s photoshop. And can it, Emily Post. We’re going over there.” No one wore a suit like Oliver Queen. It was cosmically unfair. “Smile. Would it kill you to smile?”

“It might.”

Felicity risked letting go of him long enough to hung John and give him a kiss on the cheek. He looked very handsome too, of course.

“See you brought your plus one,” he said.

“Mr. Diggle, good to see you again.” Fetter shook his hand with gusto.

“You too, sir. Thank you for coming.”

“Mr. Smekhov,” Oliver extended his hand, “it’s nice to see you.”

“Mmm. Is it?”

“Excuse me,” John said, abandoning her to her fate to take a phone call.

“It is,” Felicity insisted. “Very nice to see you, Oliver.”

“You are wearing a watch,” Fetter observed.

“Oh save me,” she whispered.

“Is it in some way damaged?”

“Uh, no,” Oliver said, with a sheepish little chuckle that would do nothing to appease Fetter, who did not believe in male charm. Thank G-d, John returned.

“That was Lyla,” he said, looking hunted. “A friend of hers, Rick, was supposed to be our officiant. But he just got deployed to South Sudan.”

“Wait, you don’t have a minister?” Oliver asked.

“No.”

“This is a problem we can solve,” Felicity. “Give me a tablet and three minutes and I’ll turn the guest of your choice into a card-carrying minister.”

“I don’t know. Rick’s a real chaplain. Lyla wanted a chaplain.”

“I guarantee you what Lyla wants is to get married,” she pointed out. “Right?”

“Right.”

“So go find someone who looks sharp and isn’t afraid of crowds. There’s like twenty people here in dress blues. Go give someone an order.”

“Right.” John strode off, mission oriented once again.

“Do you at least have the ring?” Fetter asked, looking at Oliver.

 

* * *

 

“I’m sorry about my Uncle,” Felicity said later, when she spotted Oliver on the edge of the dance floor. “Prison wasn’t great for his small talk. He’s not usually so…”

“Brusque?”

“Rude. I was going to go with Rude.”

“It’s okay.” Oliver smiled warmly. “I have that effect on fathers and brothers and other male guardians. He’s a good guy. He loves you.”

“Yeah.” She looked over to where Fetter and Roy were conversing closely over glasses of what was probably vodka. You had to look closely, but if you did, you’d see that the older man was showing off sleight of hand tricks, using toothpicks and martini olives. “I can’t take him anywhere. I should get--”

“Let them be. Look how happy they are.”

Roy, smirking, was now making Fetter’s entire (empty) glass disappear and reappear. Fetter did look delighted with the young man. Now Roy was showing him how the trick worked, but they’d both drunk just enough that it was slow going.

“Are you happy?” Oliver asked.

Felicity froze. What the fresh hell had prompted that question? She was deciding whether or not to answer when her phone buzzed with a news alert: ARROW RETURNS TO KILLING; MAYOR CASTLE AND RAY PALMER TO HOLD PRESS CONFERENCE.

“This bitch again.”

Oliver gave her a look.

“Oh, she sold out the Glades while you were MIA, in the most literal sense. She can go kick rocks. I just hope to G-d that nobody lets Palmer in front of the camera.”

 

* * *

 

“We have a statement from Mr. Palmer,” Mayor Castle said, making room for Ray at the microphone.

“Ohhhhhhhhh no,” Felicity said, hiding her face from her friends, even in the privacy of the lair. There was really only one direction that a boy scout of his caliber could go with this.

“While it’s hard to ignore all the good that the Arrow has done for the city, it is equally hard to ignore the evidence of his apparent guilt. In any case, the Arrow needs to be apprehended, and at least brought to trial, if not justice.”

“Stop there,” she said to the TV. “Stop talking right now.”

“And I am devoting all of my substantial resources towards making certain the Arrow is apprehended.”

“Ugggggh.” She dropped her head back and voiced her frustration. “And he had to add that ‘substantial’ too like we’d all forgotten how rich he was.”

“You have to meet with Lance and tell him it wasn’t you,” said Roy, in a startling display of naivete.

“My word doesn’t carry a lot of weight with him right now.”

“Oliver has that effect on fathers,” Felicity said. They turned to look at her. “Sorry. Champagne.”

 

* * *

 

Shirtless sword drills. How was she supposed to do anything while there were shirtless sword drills? Felicity was a damn professional, though, because she had multiple search windows up and running. She checked in on them, periodically. Very periodically.

She’d been too pissed off to give Oliver a proper exam when he returned, and now she was guessing based on scar placement. She didn’t like her guesses, so she let her mind wander. Who looked that good in cargo pants? Who still even owned cargo pants? Well, obviously, people who looked that good in them. Oliver turned and she quickly looked back at the screen.

“Anything?” he asked.

“Bupkis.”

“Los Alcones are unloading a huge shipment of narcotics,” Roy said excitedly. “The entire gang is going to show up for protection.”

“This is exactly the kind of thing that Fake Arrow would go after,” she pointed out. “We really need a better name for him. Faux-row? Artivigilante? I need Cisco.”

“When is this happening.”

“Right now. I’ll suit up.”

“Roy. This is the League. I’ve got it.”

As soon as his back was turned, Roy gave her a wide eyed look. Felicity, still slightly tipsy, made a vaguely shrug-like gesture with her hands.

“Do you think he’s got it?” Roy asked, exasperated.

“Um.”

“Yeah, me either.”

 

* * *

 

The next morning, 48 hours before the clinic’s re-grand-opening, Felicity got a call from Palmer. She didn’t answer, because she didn’t talk on the phone for anyone except Lance and Fetter. Everyone else was damn well young enough to text. She dreaded listening to voicemails, too, which was hardly adult, but at least this one was short: Suit business.

“Ray?” Felicity asked, having opened the door to the office with absolutely zero decorum.

“Oliver Queen is the Arrow.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” She donkey-kicked the glass door shut behind her. “Keep your voice down.”

“It all makes sense now. Your sudden disappearances, how you’re always taking work calls, even when you’re already at work. You’ve been working with the Arrow this whole time.”

“How did you find out?” she demanded.

“High spectrum portable radiograph. X-Ray vision. And your facial recognition software. Nice code, by the way.”

“It’s not mine, and I didn’t give you permission to use it. Wait--you go the suit working? And you didn’t even tell me?”

“Last night I saw your friend Oliver standing over eight of his victims.”

“Did you see him kill them?”

“I saw--”

“You have x-ray vision, Palmer. What exactly did you see?”

“I saw him standing over the bodies--”

“So you saw a man whose face you recognized with software of unknown provenance after seeing it through, I have to guess, a wall or two? Made many positive IDs that way, have you, Sherlock?”

“This isn’t the first time he’s been judge, jury, and executioner.”

“Oh my G-d, you sanctimonious prick! Oliver didn’t do this!”

“You have feelings for him, don’t you?”

“What?”

“I have a 140 IQ and three PhDs,” Palmer scoffed. “It’s pretty hard to insult my intelligence, but I think you just did.”

“First of all,” Felicity said, feeling herself building in volume, “I’m pretty smart too, but I try not to let it ruin my life. Second of all, my feelings for anyone or anything are none of your business. Third of all, you’ve been a vigilante for like five minutes so maybe cool it with the judgment.” She stopped herself and took a deep breath. “Palmer. You have trusted me with funds and authority and your memory of Anna and your own suit secret. Why can’t you trust me on this? Palmer! Where are you going?”

“I’m going to honor the promise I made to this city and bring the Arrow to justice.”

 

* * *

 

“He knows,” Felicity blurted out as soon as she hit the bottom of the stairs. “I don’t want anyone else to panic. I’m doing all the panicking for us.” She dug into her messenger bag and removed her klonopin and took two.

“Take a breath. What are you talking about?” Oliver asked calmly.

“Last year, Ray’s fiancee was killed by Mirakuru goons. Ray’s fiancee was also my friend Anna, from the library.” She darted a look at Oliver. “And now he wants to protect the city. That’s the, uh, science experiment we’ve been working on. Apparently, it’s no longer an experiment. It’s a full-on robotic exosuit built out of Queen Consolidated’s leftover military tech. He went looking for the Arrow, using--I am not making this up--his x-ray vision to identify you, while you stood over some corpses. He knows who you are and he’s going to tell the cops.”

“Palmer knows I’m the Arrow?” he asked.

She nodded.

“And he’s on his own mission to protect the city?”

She nodded again.

“And when were you going to tell me this?” he roared.

Felicity jumped. “Oliver,” she pressed her palm into her sternum. “Don’t yell at me. Or at least save it for some time when I’m not already losing it. I found out five minutes ago that his suit was more than a pipe dream. I came right over here. He’s already pinged my phone here once, so it’ll probably take him another ten minutes to figure out what the basement is for.”

“Wait--Palmer built a super suit?” Roy said. “That’s kind of awesome.”

Oliver spun and glared.

“And...reckless?” Roy was learning.

“What are we going to do?” she asked.

“Spike his guns.”

 

* * *

 

Haircut is Oscar Mike.

LL: Haircut is who?

LL: And what?

The usurper knows about the best man. Headed for the pig wallow.

LL: Understood.

LL: I think.

 

* * *

 

“How’d it go with Palmer?” Felicity asked. It was a formality, really. The way Oliver stalked down the stairs told her everything she needed to know. Palmer had been an ass.

“Not well. He says you’re not seeing me for what I really am.”

Felicity blew a raspberry, leaning back in her desk chair. Maybe the double klonopin had been a bad idea. Too late now.

“He is stubborn, and unstable,” Oliver observed.

Felicity blew another raspberry, really putting her diaphragm into it.

“I don’t know what that means,” he said peevishly.

“It means he’s just stubborn and unstable enough to be a vigilante, but too new to know about all the moral gray areas. And you…” Felicity sat up straight. “Oliver, a guy with a weaponized exosuit could be very useful.”

“For what? Target practice?” His tone was so derisive that for the second time that day, she felt her temper rising.

“Maybe, just maybe, we could look into branching out into something besides pointy sticks!”

“We’re doing fine with pointy sticks!”

“Don’t yell at me!”

“You yelled first!”

“I did,” she admitted...loudly. “Sorry.” She took another breath. “But, Oliver. Seriously. I think, when Palmer gets it together, it might be worth looking into bringing him in. Or at least cooperating with one another.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Oliver’s voice was low and surprisingly bitter.

“Excuse me?” She was bewildered.

“You’ve wanted to be with him for a while. This was all that was holding you back. But now he knows about your secret life. And now you can be together.”

Her mouth gaped open. “Are you high?”

“Why not? He can give you everything. Your job, your clinic, your...science project super suit.” He ticked them off on his hands.

“I am not a slot machine! You can’t put favors into me until you hit the jackpot and a relationship falls out the bottom!” Felicity had been waiting for this moment. “Besides. That’s not why you’re upset.”

“Really?” he asked, that note of bitterness back.

“Yeah. You’re mad because when this started it was just you and you’re used to being in charge, and that worked for you. But every time you left us, you abdicated a little of that authority. And you’re just now figuring that out now because there’s another rich guy on a crusade and he took your company and you think he’s taking me and you’re afraid he’s going to take your mission, too. But the mission doesn’t belong to just you anymore. And I don’t belong to you at all.”

“I know that!” he snapped. “I only meant that it makes sense for you to deserve to be with someone who can give you the thing you deserves!”

“What I deserve is to be with someone that I want to be with!”

She realized one of her searches was pinging repeatedly.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“911 call, suspected gang activity at Meltzer Power Plant.”

“Could be Maseo’s next target. Call Roy. Tell him to suit up and meet me at the power plant.”

“Right. And if you see Palmer, you should know he hasn’t reinforced the joints on his exosuit yet. A well placed arrow could disrupt the power circuit. I recommend going for the groin.”

 

* * *

 

 _Don’t be smug, Felicity._ She stared at her reflection on the inside of the Palmer Tech elevator doors as they rose up, up, up towards Palmer’s office. Palmer, who had, according to what she'd heard on comms, been served humble pie last night.  _Don’t be smug. Be magnanimous in victory._ Per usual, she let herself into his office.

“How are you?” she asked, unable to keep from crossing her arms over her chest at the office door.  _Magnanimous in victory._

“My ego’s bruised. And my arm. And my back. And my rotator cuff.”

“Serves you right.” _Dammit. So close._ “Anything bad enough you want me to look at it?”

“No. No, and I think I owe you an apology. You tried to tell me me earlier that Oliver was innocent. But I didn’t believe you. I want you to know that I do trust you, though. And I will listen to you next time.

“Okay, good. You can listen to me this time.” She took a seat across from him.

“Oh, okay.”

“I am going to give you the benefit of my hard-won wisdom in the vigilante business. If you decide you want to keep doing this, if you really want to get involved in this, weird shit is going to happen to you.”

Palmer laughed--he actually had a decent laugh.

“It just does! You end up poisoned or kidnapped or maybe somebody calls you because they’re bleeding to death in the back of a parking garage and then, poof, there go all your best laid plans.”

“Poof?”

“Yep. And I’m warning you about this, because you’re pretty good at being a rich guy. That’s a compliment, by the way. Your shops are union, you endow lots of charities but you don’t try and run them, and your employee benefits are excellent. You do a lot. And if you get involved in this, there’s no guarantee that you’ll be able to keep being a good rich guy. Look at...our friend.”

“I have,” Ray said calmly. “And I am still committed.”

Felicity sighed heavily. “Okay. But an apology would not go amiss here.”

“I am sorry.”

“Not me. For Oliver, Mr. Three PhDs.”

“Ah. Right. Well, I thought it might be a good start if I meet with the city leadership and retract all my earlier, entirely baseless, allegations.”

“That might be a very good start.

“Want to come?”

“Are you going to make me change?”

“No,” he said, after a pause.

Her jeans were perfectly clean, almost. But she'd be damned if he got her back into business casual. Last time she went with him to meet the mayor, she'd put on a blazer, and then there had been an armed takeover. No, the mayor would have to make do.

“Good. Let's do this."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry there wasn't much action in this one, but in my defense, this episode didn't have much action either!
> 
> As always, if the mood strikes you, please point out my typos to me!


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re under arrest,” Lance said.
> 
> “For what?” She tilted her head back, exasperated.
> 
> “Aiding and abetting.”
> 
> “From the floor?”

_ The truth will set you free. But not until it is finished with you. _

-David Foster Wallace

 

**Starling, 2015**

The first arrow went directly into Mayor Castle’s chest.

Felicity’s first instinct was to cross the room to the woman; half a heartbeat later, her second instinct was to hit the deck. Her body collected these divergent impulses and she tripped forward, falling to her hands and knees to crawl. Later, she would realize that she’d been targeted. But in the moment, with the mayor so still, the arrow that hit her thigh was no more than in inconvenience. She just swore under her breath and army-crawled the rest of the way across the room.

“Felicity!” Palmer yelled.

“Stay there!” she commanded, pointing at him with authority. Felicity finally reached Castle, but it was pointless. She was very dead. The arrow had punched through center mass, probably hitting the superior vena cava or the aorta. 

Behind her, there was a lot more yelling, Lance was shouting into his walkie, and people were starting to get to their feet. Felicity crawled to the next victim, a security guy who was at least still twitching. Not only twitching, but conscious. He rolled his eyes towards her, clearly panicked. She pushed herself up to a seated position, not really sure why her left leg was burning, and not really caring.

“I’m a doctor,” she said. “Don’t talk unless I tell you to talk. Can you squeeze my hand for me? Fantastic. And can you do it with your other hand?”

He gave her ungloved fingers a gentle squeeze.

“Really good stuff. Captain Lance has already called for an ambulance, so I’m just window dressing at this point. I know this has got to hurt like hell, but if I pull this arrow out, it’s going to get a whole lot worse, believe it or not. So we are just going to hang tight until someone gets you to the hospital and gives you the good drugs.”

She gave him a cursory examination, taking vitals, and talking the whole time about who even knew what. At one point, she might have been advising him to look into a career change, but she also could have been talking to herself. Then the EMTs arrived, two teams, and took over for her.

“Ma’am,” one of them said. “We have you to take you in now.”

“No, you don’t. Just bring me that bag over there.”

“Right.” The EMT didn’t even look directly at her. “Ma’am, did you hit your head?”

“It’s Doctor. I didn’t. And if you don’t pass me my bag, I’ll have all your asses in slings by the end of the night.”

“Shit, Chick, it’s that doctor from Glades Memorial. Get her the bag!”

“What?” Felicity asked, as her nylon messenger bag was pressed into her hands. She dug around inside until she found her trusty Leatherman shears. Very carefully, she cut her favorite jeans away from the arrowhead.

“She’s about to reopen that clinic.”

“Do you have spare gloves?” she asked, and the younger EMT handed them to her. Wincing, she pulled away the blood fabric. “It’s not bad. Not in past the barb. You got any forceps?”

“Yeah,” the EMT called Chick said, and handed them to her. “Oh, no, ma’am, that’s a bad idea.”

“It’s Doctor. Don’t worry. I do this a lot. Just not usually on myself. Grab me some gauze and a pressure bandage, would you?” She gripped the shaft of the arrow carefully and pulled at a perpendicular angle from her leg. She didn’t exactly scream, but she definitely bit through her lower lip.

“That’s so badass.”

“Gauze,” she gasped. “Gauze.” The bleeding wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t insubstantial. At that point, the EMTs stepped in and applied a pressure bandage, too, which was good because she was feeling a little light-headed. It would pass. Someone was looming over her.

“You’re under arrest,” Lance said.

“For what?” She tilted her head back, exasperated.

“Aiding and abetting.”

“From the floor?”

“Obstruction of justice.”

“Oh, fuck off,” she said, knocking his hand away when he reached for her wrist. He grabbed again, harder, hauling her to her feet.

“And resisting arrest.”

“Ow! What are you doing?” she struggled to stay upright. Her right leg worked just fine, but it hurt like hell.

“Hey!” Palmer said, stepping away from his interview with a duo of police officers on the other side of the room.

“This is why I don’t go to meetings!” she said.

“Where are you taking her?”

“Call Laurel Lance,” Felicity said to him, half-hopping backwards out of the room. “Hire whoever she says. Please!”

“You’ll get your phone call when we get to the station.”

“And don’t tell my uncle!” she yelled as Lance removed her from the room. 

 

* * *

 

Felicity rolled her head back and forth on her neck, trying to release some of the tension. It wasn’t easy when you were handcuffed to a table. The room looked awfully familiar. She was pretty sure she’d been wearing her  _ Liberté, égalité, sororité _ t-shirt the last time, too. Her necklace, a mezuzah about the size of a AAA battery, was new though. Outside, the two Lances were engaging in some light warfare.

“...and it has to end tonight.” Lance said, then opened the door to the room and slammed it shut behind him.

“Thanks for getting around to me,” Felicity said, shifting her weight in her seat to try and ease some of the pressure in her thigh. “An ibuprofen wouldn’t go amiss here.”

“Who is he?” Quentin asked without preamble, dropping into the chair across from her.

She just rolled her eyes.

“Your co-workers have given you up. I have witnesses now, that you work with the Hood.”

“That’s not even a good lie.”

“Just tell me his name, or I’ll--”

“What? What have you got me on? Bleeding on police property without prior written authorization?”

“He shot you! And you’re still protecting him!”

“Oh, come off it, Detective.”

“Captain.”

“The Hood didn’t shoot me and you know it. Hypothetically. On what planet would a friend ever put an arrow in me?”

“On this planet. Where’s he’s a killer.”

“Think about it, Quentin.”

“It’s Captain Lance.”

“Quentin--we were--you were there with me, the night of the undertaking. You were in my ear. I said things…” Felicity opened and closed her hands in mute frustration. “You know me. You know your daughter. Why won’t you listen?”

“Why won’t you?” he snapped, and slammed his fist against the metal table. Felicity jumped in her chair, landed, and cursed. Her lip started bleeding again and she shifted to take some weight off her leg.

“Dammit!” She leaned forward to touch her lip to fingers of her cuffed hand and sucked her breath in, her temper flaring. “Your ex-wife must be a saint, for your daughters to turn out so well with an asshole like you for a father.”

“Not like your dad, right?” Quentin said quietly. “He was the real saint.”

“This should be good,” Felicity sneered. “Tell me about my father.”

“I looked you up. I know your parents died in an accident. I know your father was driving. I know he was drunk.”

She snorted. The public records of Nevada were the first thing she’d hacked, back in college. She hadn’t quite wiped the slate clean, but she’d done her best to soften the blow for future googlers. Tragic accidents were one thing. Cold-blooded uxoricide was another.

“Is that funny to you?”

“A little bit, yeah. Does kind of make me an expert on shit dads, though.”

He looked ready to hit her. He stood up. HIs hand twitched. But instead, he went for the door.

“He’d never hurt me,” Felicity called after him. “He’d never hurt me! Fuck. I’m talking to myself. In a one way mirror. Is this rock bottom? It’s starting to feel like rock bottom.”

 

* * *

 

In point of fact, Rock Bottom arrived a few hours later when Lance re-entered the room, looking smug and unpleasant and a lot like every other cop she’d known. She was thirsty and her leg felt hot and tight. It was possible she was running a low grade fever. It was also possible that she was just pissed off.

“Oliver Queen,” he said, “is the Arrow.”

“And I’m Hawkgirl,” she said blithely, even as her stomach plummeted. “Are you Aquaman? That would be a neat trick.”

“You think you’re so smart. You think you’re smarter than the rest of us.”

“I know for a fact I’m smarter than you.”

“And where has that gotten you?”

“Pretty fucking far, actually.” Felicity smiled.

“You make me sick. All of you.”

“Even Laurel?” she asked. “Even Sara?”

“Don’t you say her name.” Lance was back in her face, so they were almost touching noses. “Don’t you dare.”

“One of your daughters is still alive, you know.” Inside, Felicity’s guts were turning to liquid. Outside, she tried very hard not to blink. “How do you think that makes her feel? To be worth less to you?”

“You don’t know anything about my family.”

“I know everything about your family.” She was suddenly very sad and tired. Looking away, she said: “You have a daughter and you don’t care. I know what it’s like to have a father who doesn’t care.”

Lance left her.

 

* * *

 

The next person she saw was Oliver Queen. He looked imposing and dignified and worn down. Lance shoved him in the direction of the chair across from her and roughly chained him to the same table bar. She reached up for her necklace, the silver mezuzah on its chain, and depressed the the base of the cylinder.

“This isn’t a favor,” Lance announced. “The other rooms are occupied.”

_ Laurel _ , Oliver mouthed at her.

“Miss Smoak, you’re free to go.”

“Doctor,” she corrected.

“Shit.” Lance was patting his suit breast and digging through his pockets for handcuff keys that weren’t there. “I’ll be back.”

“He didn’t misplace the keys,” Oliver guessed.

“I lifted them off him earlier when he was here.”

“Of course you did.” There was a twitch of a smile.

“Don’t worry. We can talk. There’s a bug-killer in my necklace.”

“Of course there is.” That was a proper smile.

“It’s also a kosher mezuzah.”

“Of course it is.” Then he slid his handcuffs along the bar until her hands were in his. “Are you okay, Felicity?”

“Sure.” She willed her hands not to shake.  “I mean, that League archer gave me the Roy Harper special. You know, one arrow to the leg. But I was diving for the mayor. Pretty sure he was aiming for my chest.”

Oliver exhaled, looking defeated.

“It’s okay, it’s shallow, and the arrow’s already out. A little codeine and amoxicillin and I’ll be right as rain.”

He was running the calloused pad over his thumb over her knuckles, raising little hairs all over her body.

“You come here often?” she asked.

He looked up at her then, face unguarded.

“Oh, Oliver.” She thought maybe her heart was actually breaking. “It’s okay. I know why you’re here. I mean, it’s not okay. It’s a terrible idea. And we will fix this. But for now, it’s okay.”

“You’ll all have full immunity,” he said, looking away again.

“That is very sweet, probably. I think. But if you could watch your own back right now, I would feel a lot better about this plan. It is a plan, right?” She bit her lip. “Oh G-d, there’s no plan is there.”

“I didn’t really get that far.”

“Oh, Oliver.” Felicity took both of his hands and squeezed.

“I’ve been through worse than prison.”

“This is insane,” she said. “Prison aside, what are we going to do without you?”

The door flew open and Lance reappeared. With bolt-cutters. 

“What am I going to do?” she asked, as Lance cut the links of her handcuffs and led her out. “Without you?”

 

* * *

 

John was waiting for her in the lobby of the police station. He scooped her up like the officer and the gentleman that he was and carried her out to his 4-Runner. He put her in the backseat and climbed in. Roy rode shotgun. It was a quiet drive back to the lair, with lots of impractical turns and turnabouts.

Eventually, they parked three blocks from Verdant and Diggle piggy-backed her down the stairs. Roy ran ahead and tried to lay out medical supplies, mostly succeeding only in making her anxious.

“Who took this out?” John asked, frowning. “It’s sloppy work.”

“I was kind of pressed for time,” Felicity said sheepishly.

“This needs sutures!”

“Lance was very intent on placing me under arrest.”

“He threw you in the cage like this?” Roy looked outrage.

“Down boy,” she said. “It was just an interview room and I’m fine. Besides, I think we have bigger fish to fry tonight.”

“We can’t stay here,” John said, as he injected the local and prepared to stitch. “It’s not secure anymore.”

“And then what?” Roy asked. “We let Oliver go to prison? Forever?”

“No,” she said. “We are definitely not going to do that. We’re going to do...something else. Digg, what are we going to do?”

“I don’t know,” he said, eyes on the task at hand. “If I did, you’d be hearing it right now.”

They sat silently while Digg finished up the sutures, dressed the incision, and handed Felicity a few painkillers to go with her amoxicillin. They all knew they had to leave, of course. It would only be a matter of time before Lance served a warrant on the premises. But no one wanted to to be the first to go.

“The lot assigned to to every man is suited to him, and suits him to itself,” Roy said. “I’m not...smart. But I know what my lot is.”

“You stole my Marcus Aurelius!” she objected.

Roy shrugged.

“Love the little trade which thou hast learned, and be content therewith,” John said.

“You stole my Marcus Aurelius?”

“Please, I was reading Marcus before either of you could drive.” Diggle turned to face the younger man. “Do you really want to do this, Roy? Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Do we have time to hem the suit?” Felicity asked. “Or do we just roll the cuffs and hope for the best.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Felicity?”
> 
> “Yeah?”
> 
> “You can’t come back here,” John told her. “Not ever.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't get medical advice from beta-less fanfic writers

Rest, rest, a perfect rest 

Shed over brow and breast; 

Her face is toward the west, 

The purple land. 

She cannot see the grain 

Ripening on hill and plain; 

She cannot feel the rain 

Upon her hand. 

-Christina Rosetti, “Dream Land”

 

**Starling, 2015**

“Felicity.”

“Yep,” she chirped, jolting upright, like she hadn’t been caught nodding off at the console.

“Go home. Sleep.”

“No, not yet. He’ll be here soon.”

“You’re exhausted. You’re on painkillers. You have to re-open the clinic in a couple hours.”

“He’ll be here soon.”

John sighed. “Fine. Stay. But you have to sleep.”

“I thought that’s what I was doing,” she grumbled.

“Take off your shoes. Lay down on a real bed. Close your eyes.”

“That’s Oliver’s bed.”

“Yes, and I bet it’s juuust right.”

“John Diggle, was that a Goldilocks joke? You’re really getting this parenthood thing down.”

“Bed.” He was now physically holding her by the shoulders, steering the rolling desk chair in the direction of Oliver’s IKEA bedset.

“You must be reading to Sara. That’s good.”

“Bed.” He pushed her past the training mats and the dummies.

“It’s important for...all kinds of stuff.” Just like Anna had taught her. And now Felicity knew she was tired, and maybe slightly stoned, because her eyes were filling up with tears. “Reading is good.”

“Smoak,” he said. “You have got to sleep.”

“Okay.” She pushed herself out of the chair and limped over to Oliver’s bed. Not too long ago, she would have been too precious to get into it, at least without a fight. Those days were long past. She sat down on it and then climbed under his covers. Everything smelled like him. It was like wearing one of his shirts, or so she imagined, but maybe even better. Closer. She sighed and rubbed her face against his pillow.

“Jesus,” she heard John mutter. And then she was as asleep as she could make herself. She heard John moving around, cleaning, rearranging. He’d said that it wasn’t safe for them to stay and he was right. She should probably be helping him. 

John shook her awake around six in the morning.

“Is he back?” she asked, burying her face deeper in the pillows.

“No, I think he’s waiting to talk to Roy.”

“Okay.” She pushed herself up to sitting. “Shit. I have to be presentable in an hour.”

“Hour and a half,” he said. “Your bike’s chained up outside. Don’t touch anything on the way out.”

Felicity looked around as she stood up, testing her sore leg. “Are you...staging the place?”

“I don’t want Roy’s work to be in vain,” he said bluntly.

“Me either. I can’t believe I slept.”

“Codeine will do that for you. You good to ride home?”

“I’m good.” She stepped into her sneakers, wiggling her heels inside and walking gingerly towards the stairs.

“Felicity?”

“Yeah?”

“You can’t come back here,” John told her. “Not ever.”

“Right.” There was no more mission. She turned away and walked up the stairs as fast as she could, eyes stinging. She wiped away the tears with the cuff of her sweatshirt, which was awfully big. Because it was Oliver’s sweatshirt. She pedaled homeward, towards the clinic, and left her bike at the bottom of the stairs.

“Felicity!” Fetter said, rising from the sofa. “I have been worried to death. You text me not to worry? On a night when all your friends go to prison? What is wrong with your leg? Why are you crying? Come here at once.” He enfolded her in a very tough embrace.

“You have to go,” she said to Fetter’s shoulder.

“I do not.” He held her at an arm’s length, chafing her shoulders.

“Fetter. Things are about to get very...hot here. In Starling. There’s a chance that I may need somewhere to go. There’s a non-zero chance that I may need someone to be.”

“Felicity,” he began, “what is going on?”

“I’m going to do some illegal stuff tonight. And probably tomorrow, too. And depending on how it goes, I might be accused of malpractice. Or maybe murder.”

“Well. Get in the shower. I’ll make you breakfast before I go.” He kissed her on the forehead and released her. “French toast?”

“Please.” Felicity wondered what other families talked about.

“Oh, and your friend Jerry brought your car over.”

“The who and the what now?”

“Jerry. He said it was your yearly bonus?”

“Holy shit. He said he’d give me one if I got Palmer back at work a couple weeks ago, but I didn’t think he meant it.”

“The car says otherwise.” Fetter frowned. “You get many gifts from men.”

“Well is it any good?”

“I think it implies that you are a woman of very loose morals.”

“The car, Fetter. How is it as a getaway vehicle?”

“Jerry tells me it is top of the line.” Fetter reached into his pocket and removed a ring of keys. “2015, V8, Nissan Xterra. Rather rugged for Starling, don’t you think?”

“I bet those back seats fold flat,” she said, surprising herself with a smile.

Fetter looked somewhat scandalized.

“Not for that!” Her face flamed. “For bodies. Live bodies. Living people. I think Palmer gave me an ambulance I can drive over bad guys. It’s kind of sweet. If all else fails, I can sleep in it. Alone.”

“Alone,” Fetter muttered, stepping into the small kitchen. “Dresses, shoes, cars. And always alone. You ruin your reputation and for what?”

 

* * *

 

An hour later, Felicity kissed her uncle goodbye and clattered down the steps to the clinic. Where the staff was all listening to Palmer give a speech. They were all wearing forest green scrubs, matching scrubs, with an evergreen tree embroidered over the heart. Nobody had given her any special scrubs. She hung back, arms crossed, as Palmer talked about service and his fellow man.

“What kind of bullshit is this, anyway?” Sin had sidled up next to her. She was not wearing scrubs of any kind.

“I don’t know,” Felicity said. “I’m glad you’re here, though.”

“It’s what Sara would have wanted.” It came off flippant, but it wasn’t.

“I think you’re right.”

“So where’s your uniform? Did you get kicked off Team Douchebag Haircut?”

“I didn’t think so.”

From the front of the room, Palmer got sight of her and briefly went wide-eyed. But after only a brief pause, he carried gamely on with his speech. When it was over, there was a polite round of applause from almost all the staff, save Sin, Felicity, and Kesha, who was the new nurse-manager and clearly hadn’t decided whether or not to approve of her new benefactor.

“It’s a shame he’s a prick,” Kesha said, standing on Felicity’s other side and crossing her arms. “He’s so rich.”

“He’s not a prick,” Felicity said.

Both Sin and Kesha cast her spectacular side-eyes.

“Okay, well, regardless. He’s your boss now. So he’s your prick, too.”

“Where’s your scrubs?” Kesha asked.

“I didn’t get the memo,” Felicity said.

“I don’t do fascistic uniforms,” Sin said.

“Uh-huh.” Kesha uncrossed her arms.

“Here comes Douchebag Haircut.”

“Quit calling him that,” Felicity hissed.

“Douchebag,” Sin stage-whispered, “Haircut.”

“What are you doing here?” Palmer asked, a social smile on his face.

“We work here, genius,” Sin said.

“Dr. Smoak, a word?” He steered Felicity towards the small exam room. “No, I mean, what are you doing here? Roy Harper and Oliver Queen are both in handcuffs?”

“Technically, Oliver’s not in handcuffs anymore. They’re just dragging their feet on the processing. And...I don’t want to talk about the other stuff.”

“Should you be on your feet? Didn’t you get shot last night?”

“It was more like a nick. And where are my scrubs, by the way?”

“I was not expecting you.”

“Oh.” Felicity took a breath. “Oh. You weren’t expecting me. I wasn’t invited? To the opening of the clinic I thought I was working for?”

“I thought you were still under arrest,” he said quietly.

“What? They never even properly arrested me--just took me downtown and gave me a talking to.”

“Well, that would explain why Ms. De La Vega couldn’t find you. As far as I know, she’s still checking precinct by precinct.”

“There aren’t any scrubs here with my name on them, are there.” For some reason, the news didn’t smart too badly. It felt...disappointing. But also freeing.

“Felicity--”

“No. I get it. Let me guess. Lance put my name out there? With the press?”

“I suspect so.”

“So now my name is linked with Oliver’s name which is obviously linked with the Robert Queen Memorial Clinic, whose name I insisted on keeping. And even though Oliver is, obviously, not the Arrow because Roy is, and even though neither of them murder innocent people willy nilly, there’s concern that I’m going to be tarred by the same brush and drag the clinic down with me.”

“That’s about the size of it. And I really did think you were still under arrest.”

“This is why you sent me the car, isn’t it.”

“What car?”

“Nevermind,” she said quickly. “That’s between me and Jerry, then.”

“What is?”

“I’ll be out by this afternoon.” There was so much up there that was just...gifted to her. It wasn’t really hers at all. Everything that was rightly, properly her own could be loaded into her new truck in an hour.

“Wait--Felicity--no one is asking you to--”

“Give the apartment to Sin,” she said, suddenly feeling the rightness of it. The Arrow lair was gone. The Arrow was gone. Maybe she would be gone, too. “Along with the stipend, etc., that we discussed.”

“I don’t mind to speak ill of your friend, but I find it unlikely that she’d accept a gift from me. Nor, may I add, do I want you to leave.”

“Tell her I blackmailed you into it.” In her head, Felicity was already packing. She wouldn’t even have to pay for a motel. May Jerry’s blessings ever increase.

“I don’t want you to leave like this. I don't want you to leave at all.”

“It’s fine, Palmer. We'll talk more later.” She reached up and put her hand against his jaw. “Keep your suit gassed up, okay? This town’s already down a hero.”

 

* * *

 

Felicity waited in the back of ARGUS’s fake coroner’s van, in black scrubs, black gloves, and black surgical mask, and wondered what she would do next with her life. These secret agencies did not really do subtle. Everyone had assured her that this procedure had in fact worked before on multiple occasions. But it had also failed, mostly with older ‘victims,’ but not always.

She checked and re-checked her equipment. Maybe she would travel for a while, do locum work. It had been ages since she’d left Starling, and not just because of her residency. If the Arrow, if Oliver, didn’t need her, that was a kind of freedom she hadn’t known in years. Oxygen, several units of O-negative, epinephrine in a spinal needle, defibrillator paddles.

When they arrived at Iron Heights, Felicity stayed safely hidden in the back of the van. Because it was the plan, but also because she was terrified of prisons. And she wouldn’t have to look at Roy’s body bag a minute before it was necessary. The prison medical staff, if you could even call them that, loaded the black HRP and its gurney into the van. They didn’t even look in her direction. Immediately after the doors closed, the ARGUS van began to pull away. Felicity desperately unzipped the bag and found Roy looking very convincingly dead. She went to work.

Oxygen mask: on. EKG leads: attached. Manual defibrillator: charged. Heart: almost non-existent.

Intracardiac injections, despite what  _ Pulp Fiction _ taught so many audiences, were now outdated and had always been dangerous. Felicity could not, in any other circumstances, imagine doing what she was about to do. She made a fist and thumped on the one-way glass divider between her and the cockpit of the van. The van stopped and remained that way. With her gloved hands, she counted down to the fourth left intercostal space. Then she reached for the spinal needle.

“Refuah shlema,” she whispered, because she didn’t know anything else to say.

Then she slid the very long, very thin needle through Roy’s chest and into his ventricular chamber. It was a tough muscle and she squeezed her eyes tight, willing the needle to pass inside. Finally, it did. She depressed the plunger and carefully removed the needle. The EKG registered a rhythm. V-fib. She thumped on the window again and grabbed the manual defibrillator.

“Wake up, little SA node,” she commanded. It took three tries, and several years off her own life, but it worked and Roy’s sinoatrial node did take over rhythm-setting duties. He was breathing on his own--she could see the faintest hints of exhalation in the fog on the inside of his oxygen mask. She could then focus on prosaic concerns like oxygenation and body temperature.

It seemed like no time at all until they arrived at the ARGUS facility, but her aching back told her she’d been bent over Roy for longer than that. She rattled of his vitals to the receiving trauma team and hopped out after him, only to nearly pitch over. 

“Are you alright, Dr. Smoak?” a familiar voice asked.

“Lyla!” She just stopped herself from hugging the other woman in front of her secret spy colleagues. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just my leg.”

“You have time before your night shift starts. Let one of our doctors take a look.”

“That’s okay.”

“Felicity, did my husband the out-of-work former combat medic put in those stitches?”

“Yeah?”

“I’ll sleep better tonight if you let one of our people look at it.”

The ARGUS doctor had a much better bedside manner than his rather grizzled appearance would suggest. He tut-tutted over the irregularity stitches, but pronounced them good enough for grunt work. Then he redressed the puncture with the usual warnings about pus, drainage, etc. He was also kind enough to provide her with a half dose of Tylenol-3 and a few more for the road.

“You’re not going to tell me to stay off the leg?” she asked, just curious as she pulled her street clothes back on.

“Around here?” he gestured at the crowd of non-descript uniforms and pantsuits, closed-faced and goal-oriented. “What would be the point?”

Re-wrapped, Felicity made her way to the spacious room where Roy was recuperating. He was full of tubes and still had his oxygen on, but he gave her a thumbs up as soon as she entered.

“Hey, Doc.”

“Roy,” she said, exhaling deeply. “I was so scared you were going to die on accident and make us murderers.”

“Yeah, I got that.”

“You did?”

“You know you talk when you’re nervous.”

“I had heard that, yes.” She looked down at his chart, which was displayed on what looked like a two-generations-away iPad.

“In the ambulance, you kept begging me not to die, not to do this to Oliver.”

“I don’t remember that.” Felicity studied his vitals, hiding her face. 

“You gotta tell him.”

“He knows.” She put the chart back.

“Does he?” Roy shifted, grimacing, and she moved quickly to re-stack the pillows behind him. “I basically had to throw myself into bed with Thea before she figured out I was still in love with her.”

“You and Thea--”

“I get the feeling that the Queens aren’t very good at this. You have to help him out. Besides, this is it.”

“What is it?”

“This is your shot, Doc. There’s no more Arrow. You don’t have to compete with the costume anymore. I’m a dead man. Literally. So, don’t blow this.”

“I can’t believe I’m taking advice from a formerly deceased vigilante.” But she was smiling. In the pocket of her jeans, her phone buzzed.

“It’s time, isn’t it.”

“Yeah.” 

“Mission?”

“No, work. Although there is apparently a meta-human running around blowing shit up.”

“Oh damn.”

“Don’t worry. Oliver and Digg and Palmer are all working together to catch him.”

Roy snorted and then laughed and then held his side. 

“Sorry!” she said. “I didn’t know it would come out that funny.”

“Oh, shit, ow.”.

“I’m sorry. And I’m sorry I have to go.” Felicity leaned forward and kissed Roy on his forehead, a move he was not expecting. “I am going to miss you so much. There’s an untraceable sat phone in your bag. I expect you to use it.”

“Thank you,” he said. “For everything.”

“I’ll make it worth it,” Felicity whispered. “I promise I will.”

 

* * *

 

Glades Memorial was eerily quiet that night. It wasn’t a good quiet. It was the kind of quiet where everyone was afraid to mention the quiet, because once that genie was out of the bottle, there would be hell to pay. And into this silence, cuffed to a gurney, came Magda. She was unconscious, snoring impressively, but revived when Felicity’s interns hung a banana bag.

“Hi, Magda,” Felicity said. “Can you tell me what happened tonight?”

“Took the letter like you said. I met her father at the door.”

“I thought she was a myth,” New Intern whispered.

“I thought she was dead,” Newer Intern whispered back.

“We try to avoid talking about patients in the third person while we’re standing in front of them.”

“Don’t you fret, Monsieur Marius, I don’t feel any pain,” Magda began, her voice plaintive and quavering slightly.

“It’s true, then? She--you only do Les Mis, ma’am?”

Magda’s volume increased with her confidence and probably her level of consciousness. But it was a sad song and it was damaging the uneasy calm of the ER.

“Maybe you could do something from the First Act?” Felicity suggested. “What about Who Am I? I’ve always liked that one.”

“You would live a hundred years, if I could you show you how. I won’t desert you now.”

Felicity’s pager went off. She looked down at it:  **THEA - 911** . But that didn’t make any sense. She checked her phone:  **THEA - 911** . The hairs on the back of her neck began to lift away from the skin.

“A breath away from where you are. I’ve come home from so far.”

“Chart her,” Felicity ordered the interns. “Then put her in a private room and shut the door. Do you understand me? I don’t want anyone to hear this. Do you understand?”

The interns looked at one another, but nodded. Felicity ran, somewhat haltingly, to the charge desk where she picked up the radio and scanned the usual frequencies, listening until she found a bus that was moving inbound from the neighborhood of the Queens’ loft. It wasn’t hard--they were already trying to hail the ER. Felicity listened as the EMTs told her what they were seeing, and tried to detach her brain from her heart, and paged Dr. Rivera, her attending. Then she paged Dr. Kanerva. Then she called and ordered that an OR be prepared, which was beyond the scope of her duties, to put it mildly. But the EMTs were telling her, in medical terms, that the patient was dying. And might be dead before she arrived.

“What’s happening?” Dr. Rivera asked, meeting her at the ER entrance.

“Female, 21, penetrating thoracic injury, multiple defensive wounds.”

“We need Kanerva and an OR.”

“Yeah, I already did that.”

“Oh?” River arched a perfect brow. “Why aren’t you gowned up?”

“I can’t--I know the family.”

Dr. Rivera was giving her a strange look.

“I can’t help this girl,” Felicity admitted. “I’m in love with her brother.”

“Okay. Fair enough. You can go back inside.”

“I think I should stay.”

“What for?” The attending looked less approving now.

“To make sure the brother doesn’t kill anyone when he gets here."

“I will stay with you til you are sleeping…”

“I said put her in a goddam room!” Felicity whirled on her interns and screamed. The interns scuttled and she didn’t hear Magda again.

The ambulance pulled up to the bay, the stretcher came flying out, and Oliver was running alongside. He didn’t even see Felicity, just Dr. Rivera who was there already listening to the EMTs recite what they knew. They were heading through the swinging doors of the trauma room. Felicity caught Oliver’s arm.

“You need to stay here,” she said. He shook her arm off.

“I’m not going to leave her!” His eyes were still on Thea.

“You have to let them work, Oliver.”

He looked down and actually recognized her then.

“That’s Rivera. She’s very, very good. So let her do her job.” Felicity gently walked him backwards, away from the doors. Behind her, she could hear the defibrillator and then Rivera ordering someone to start CPR. In front of her, Oliver was frozen solidly in place. 

Felicity could hear the asystole on the monitor. It went on, and on. Then a ventricular contraction. 

Oliver stumbled backwards against the wall of the hallway. She walked back with him, grabbing him by the elbows and he slid to the floor, one hand grabbing for the zipper of his leather jacket.

“Okay, okay,” Felicity said. “You’re okay. Oliver, breathe.”

“Felicity?”

“It’s me. It’s me. You’re okay.” She was kneeling in front of him now, and reached out to hold his shoulders. “Take a breath.”

“Thea.”

“Is alive. Take a breath. Good. Good job.” Without thinking, she leaned forward and pressed a kiss into his forehead. “Good job.”


	18. Chapter 18

_ Grief is itself a medicine. _

-William Cowper

 

**Starling, 2015**

Felicity allowed herself five minutes in the staff room to slam her locker door over and over and over. No one else said a word. The staff just came and went around her. Clearly the word was out about Thea. And as curious as they had to be about her relationship to Oliver Queen, they were humane enough to leave her be for the moment. Finished with her tantrum, and slightly sweaty, Felicity reached into her locker and pulled on the blanket she kept there for sleeping in the on call room. She’d also started keeping a Tanakh there as well, but that was kind of her secret.

On Thea’s floor, Oliver was pacing the hall, arms hugged tightly around himself. He looked vacant, which was the norm for families in the ICU. There was a kind of shell-shock that set in, after the initial debilitating blow. If you didn’t retreat from the reality a little bit, you would come totally unhinged. Oliver had retreated.

“Here,” she said, proffering the very fuzzy blanket. “You look chilly.”

“Yeah.” He let her drape it around him.

“Dr. Rivera and Ilmari want to talk to you.” She chafed his arms over the blanket.

“Who?”

“Dr. Rivera was the one you saw in the ER. Ilmari, Dr. Kanerva, he was the one who operated on Thea upstairs.” 

“How bad?”

“It’s bad, Oliver. But I’m going to be there the whole time.”

They met in Ilmari’s office, a small room with lots of old black and white pictures of a sailboat called the  _ Suuvituuli _ . There was a low, circular coffee table covered in medical journals and half-empty water bottles. She sat next to Oliver and leaned very slightly into him. Dr. Rivera and Ilmari sat comfortably and calmly. As Dr. Rivera began to speak, Felicity reached out and held Oliver’s hand.

“The blood loss was extensive upon arrival,” Dr. Rivera said. “For all intents and purposes, she bled out in the ambulance. We were able to restart her heart on arrival, and to transfuse enough blood to restore some organ function.”

“Then she went to surgery.” Ilmari took over the narrative. “I was able to perform a rudimentary but effective repair of the internal damage. But in many ways, it was already too late. Your sister’s brain was starved of oxygen for too long before she made it to the table. Her brain is completely and irreversibly without function. She is brain dead.”

“Oliver,” Felicity said softly. “Do you understand what they’re saying?”

He stared at his hands.

“Okay. How about I walk through it again, and they can stop and explain more if you want.”

He nodded.

“The diagnosis of brain death is a clinical one. But it is considered to be medical and legal death also. It is the irreversible loss of brain function. And there are three different symptoms, or signals, we use to prove it. We never, ever guess about this. Okay?”

He nodded again.

“First, there’s coma. We see that, because we can’t wake her up. Second, there’s the absence of brainstem reflexes. Think of, like, a sunflower. The brain would be the flower and the brainstem would be the stalk. None of the reflexes that we should see, like gagging or blinking, are there. Finally, Oliver, there’s apnea. Thea can’t breathe without the ventilator. She lacks the brain function to breathe on her own. Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

Felicity glanced at Ilmari, who gestured for her to go on.

“You can get a second opinion,” she said, “although I don’t think her doctors want her to be moved. Another physician with credentials would be more than welcome to visit and examine her. But the criteria aren’t going to change.”

“May I see her?” 

“Of course.”

All the doctors stood. Felicity led him to the door of Thea’s hospital room and opened it for him, letting him in. She turned away and stood there, arms crossed.

“He’s not hearing us,” Dr. Rivera said.

“They never do.” Ilmari sighed. “Dr. Smoak, if he can be persuaded... She’s an excellent candidate.”

“I know.” Felicity pressed a palm to her forehead. “I’ll try. But--it’s personal for me, too.”

“I know,” Ilmari said, trading a look with Rivera. Then they left her alone outside Thea’s door.

Eight lives. That was how many people one organ donor could save. And that wasn’t counting the corneas that could restore sight and the skin that could help a burn victim live a normal life again and the ligaments that could make someone walk again. Felicity had no doubt that donation was what Thea would have chosen for herself. But Thea was legally, medically, and brain dead. Oliver would have to choose for her, if he could.

“Dr. Smoak.”

“Malcolm.” She hadn’t been expecting him, which was ridiculous.

“Is she dead?” he asked, looking as human as she’d ever seen him.

“No,” she said. “But she won’t live much longer. Go ahead.” She stepped away from the door. “Oliver is with her.”

She resumed her position outside the door, arms crossed tightly, so tight her wrist ached from the pressure. This was not the time to lose her shit. This was Oliver’s time. Felicity tilted her head back, using gravity to stop tears.  _ Eight lives _ , she thought.  _ One heart, two lungs, one liver, one pancreas, two kidneys, intestines. Eight lives for Thea.  _

It wasn’t good enough. It couldn’t be. But it wasn’t nothing.

 

* * *

 

“Felicity.”

“John.” She threw herself at him. She needed a John Diggle hug so badly. It did not disappoint. She felt like she was being squeezed back together again by someone who loved her. “She’s brain dead.”

“We gotta go up.” He nodded towards the bank of elevators in the small lobby.

“I was waiting for you,” she admitted. “It’s hard to be the doctor and the friend and the advocate at the same time. I don’t know what to say. I mean, I know too many things to say. And I don’t know which one is useful or helpful or right. And I don’t know which thing is too hard or cold or medical.”

“You know what to do. Tell truth and shame the devil.”

“They’re all truth, John. That’s the problem.”

“I got your back.” He laid a hand on her shoulder.

“Thank you.”

Oliver was in the room, still with her blanket around his shoulders. John strode forward, projecting a robust confidence that, in this situation, only a layperson could.

“Oliver, man, I came as soon as I could.”

“They just left her there. To die.”

Felicity closed her eyes.

“What is it?” John asked.

She opened her eyes and looked where they were looking, at a rooftop a few blocks away.

“Smoke.”

“The League?” she asked.

“Screw ‘em,” John said. “At least until we get our bearings, Oliver, come up with a plan.”

“There is no plan.” Oliver turned to look at them. “Stay here. With Thea.”

Felicity waited until the door swung shut before she said, “There is no Thea.”

 

* * *

 

“Oh boy,” Diggle said.

“What?” Felicity looked around the hallway. “What do you hear?”

“Zippers. He’s packing.” John shouldered his way in through the door. “Oliver?”

He was indeed packing.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Felicity asked.

“Away.”

“You can’t leave like this,” Diggle said.

“There’s a way for me to save her.”

“Thea?” She looked up to the ceiling.  _ Eight lives. No tears _ . “Oliver. It’s not possible.”

“Yes it is.” 

She turned to see Malcolm Merlyn at the door and, as always, moved to hide behind the nearest available bulwark, which was, as always, John.

“There are waters in Nanda Parbat,” Merlyn said. “They’ve permitted Ra’s to live for over a hundred years. And in rare instances, told in legend, those waters have been used to restore the dead to life. He offered to use the Lazarus Pit on Thea, didn’t he?”

“Lazarus, as in from the bible, Lazarus?” John sounded appropriately skeptical.

“The pit’s real. I’ve seen it. It can save Thea.”

“Right. But only if you become the new Ra’s.”

“Okay, let me stop all of you right here.” Felicity stepped out from behind John. “Thea is brain dead. I’m not trying to be…” Shit this was hard. “I just want to be honest, here, and very clear. This is not a neurological injury like, say, paralysis. Or a more chronic condition like epilepsy. There is no function left to injure or to malfunction. There’s nothing there. This plan isn’t a plan. It’s...gross malpractice. Worse, it’s cruel.”

“And even if this could work,” Malcolm added, “this wouldn’t bring her back. The waters change a person. In the soul. Even if they work, the Thea you get back will not be the one you lost.”

“The one we lost because of you,” Oliver snapped.

“Oliver,” Felicity said, taking another step forward. “This is not feasible. International travel with a person in Thea’s condition isn’t feasible.”

“I’d prefer that we didn’t do our usual ‘please don’t go’ dance,” he said. 

It felt like he’d slapped her. The usual dance. But it wasn’t about her. There wasn’t time for that. And it wasn’t about him either. It was about Thea. 

“We’re not going to,” she said, blinking hard. Then she left.

 

* * *

 

She drove aimlessly for hours, which wasn’t hard to do in Starling’s rush hour. It was a city criss-crossed by sounds and bridges, with poor public transportation, and no one could drive in the rain. Finally, she decided where she was really going and went there. Of all the places Felicity thought she would end up on this, one of the top ten worst days ever, in the bruising arms of Lyla Michaels was not one of them. This must be who hugged John back together again. The force it might snap Felicity in half.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know where else to go. Ugh. That’s so cliche.” Felicity wrinkled her nose as Lyla steered her towards the kitchen table. “Palmer’s out of town. Ilmari--my hospital friend--he doesn’t know about any of this. Well, none of the really outrageous parts, anyway. And I gave my apartment away to a street urchin.”

“Johnny told me. Do you want something to eat?”

Felicity shook her head.

“What about juice? Or a soda?” 

“No, thanks.”

Lyla sighed. “I’m just going to say it. You look terrible.”

“Soda, then?”

“Good. I keep some Fanta hidden in the crisper drawer for times like these.” Lyla retrieved and opened it.

“Thanks.” Felicity stared at the unwanted can in front of her.

“You have to actually drink it if you want your blood sugar to go back up.”

“Right.” Felicity took a small sip. “So. What have you heard?”

“Well. Not much. I know Oliver’s willing to give his life to the League, in exchange for Thea’s." Lyla eyed her, clearly gauging how much to say. "But Johnny did call me from the airport bathroom to tell me you’d refused to take any part in it.”

“There’s no Thea,” Felicity insisted, and her voice broke. “There’s no Thea in Thea anymore. And they’re going to drag her body halfway across the world like some...science experiment. She’s not a science experiment! She doesn’t desere that! And it’s going to be awful. She’s going to die in some hangar or cave and it won’t hurt her, because she has neurological capacity for pain anymore, but it’s going to be awful and a waste and I couldn’t make him understand that.”

“Felicity,” Lyla said. “It’s not your fault he’s leaving. He was going to make this bargain no matter how non-existent her chances were.”

“I let him go alone, Lyla! How could I do that?” Felicity began to cry in earnest. “I let him go alone!”

“Shhh.” Lyla knelt beside her chair, hugging her again.

“I’m never going to see him again. I didn’t really even say goodbye. I just left. Lyla, what am I going to do?”

“We’ll figure it out,” Lyla assured her. “We’re going to figure something out.”

At some point, Lyla put her to bed on the daybed in Sara’s room. Felicity cried herself to sleep, which she hadn’t done since foster care. She woke up, thirsty and aching in the middle of the night, and shuffled into the kitchen. As quietly as possible, she drank straight from the faucet and rinsed her swollen face.

Then she texted Fetter to let him know she needed some money. Starting over wasn’t cheap, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn’t know this chapter was going to be a bitch to write. Brain death and end of life care are both so fraught. Have you seen the episode of Gray’s Anatomy 3.10 and 3.11? Overshare: I once told a therapist of mine to watch those if they wanted to understand how I felt about the way my dad died. But there’s this great moment when George has to confront how aggressive his father’s treatment was. Anyway, I have feelings about palliative and end of life care and the Order of the Good Death and all that jazz. 
> 
> This is all to say that I felt a lot more angst about fictional fake death than I expected to! And I have to guess that it would be hard to be a woman of hard science in a comic book world. No doctor would have approved.
> 
> NOTE: The brain death determination would never be made so quickly after surgery. There’s a protocol involved that, you know, TV doesn’t really have time for. If you’re interested in brain death (you may have noticed that I like gory medical shit), there is a really good article here:
> 
> https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2772257/
> 
> And there’s more on the Order of the Good Death here:
> 
> http://www.orderofthegooddeath.com/
> 
> ETA: I'M SORRY ABOUT THE SEX I WILL MAKE IT UP TO YOU.


	19. Chapter 19

_ Just when things look darkest, they go black _ .

-Paul Newman

 

**Starling, 2015**

_ The First Night _

After she texted Fetter, she turned her phone off and washed her face in Lyla’s kitchen sink. It felt puffy and hot under her fingers. It felt unfamiliar.

She wasn’t going to sleep again that night, so she put her shoes back on and left.

 

* * *

 

_ The Second Night _

Ilmari’s sofa was made of ancient, cracked leather, and it was very comfortable. Ilmari was a sleepwalker, he warned her. Felicity couldn’t sleep, so she was reading  _ The Stranger Beside Me _ on her phone. It was an old favorite, paradoxically comforting. She’d once stolen a copy from the library, hiding it under the mattress at whatever foster home she’d been in. Her pre-teen interest in the macabre was, in hindsight, perfectly reasonable. Around two in the morning, Ilmari shuffled in, wearing his boxers and UW t-shirt. He opened the fridge.

“No goddam autoclave in the attic. I told them. No goddam autoclave. Cunts!”

He shut the fridge, and went back to bed.

Felicity regretted bitterly that she had neglected to capture the incident on camera.

 

* * *

 

What itty-bitty Felicity had always wanted, besides one of those Barbie Jeeps that actually drove on battery power, was her own trailer to tow behind it. A silver one, with a retractable awning. Those were the good kind. When you grew up in trailer parks, you acquired a keen sense of what were good trailers and what were not, why her mom always had some kind of succulent on the porch and no ashtrays or cigarette butts. The poorer you were, the more respectability mattered.

So it was with a certain ironic perspective that adult Felicity found herself excited to acquire an Airstream 20’ Flying Cloud. Fetter handled the entire transaction and all Felicity had to do was show ID, sign some papers, and hitch the shiny silver travel trailer to her SUV. She climbed into the passenger seat and put the truck in gear, turning back towards I-5. On the passenger seat was a binder of various manuals and brochures for various locum tenens agencies, all of whom were clamoring for an ER doc with her references.

That was the thing that people rich enough to own houses never appreciated: you could always pick up a trailer and go. At some point in elementary school, her father had moved them out of trailers and into apartments and condos. There were more locks, fewer families, thicker walls. Felicity had felt altogether less free. The itinerant nature of rotations had appealed to her, even living out of her dearly departed hatchback. 

She towed her new home, driving somewhat cautiously, to the trailer park that the Airstream dealer had recommended. It looked like no trailer park that Felicity had ever seen before. The little lots were green and bordered with hand-placed rocks. There were tiny homes on wheels and a few other Airstreams and absolutely no double-wides. There was fencing around the hookups and a communal laundry and mail building that looked like a log cabin It was…a yuppie trailer park? The sign read:  _ Sylvan Shore: An Intentional Community _ . Yep. She’d found a yuppie trailer park.

A man named Juniper, who had a half-smoked joint in the pocket of his dirty t-shirt, came out to help her guide the trailer into its spot at the end of a row. She’d be nestled in a quiet lot with trees on three sides. Then Juniper, bless him, tried to explain to her how to connect her water, sewer, and electric. Felicity was stunned to realize that at some point, she had stopped looking like someone who knew how to hook up a mobile home in an RV park. 

Maybe it had happened at MIT, maybe in D.O. school. But gradually she’d become conscious of the tells of poverty: storing free sugar and ketchup packets, asking to keep the extra pizza from various official dorm parties, wearing socks until there were at least two different holes. She eventually began to believe that there would still be food in the dining hall tomorrow, that her loans and part-time jobs would provide socks and underwear, that the odds of her needing to sneak out of her dorm room in the middle of the night to evade a landlord were fairly slim.

Felicity unhitched the truck from the trailer and drove it around to park besides. To her surprise, she found herself smiling. It was an adorable little silver nugget. And it was hers. She lifted the door on the truck and began to carry in the few things she’d taken from the apartment above the clinic. She’d left almost everything for Sin, knowing the younger woman had literally nothing in terms of housewares, unless you counted switchblades. But she’d brought along one set of sheets, two towels, and that divine throw blanket for her bed. Sure, she could have left it. But guilt was temporary; cashmere was forever.

It took about twenty minutes to unpack her clothes and her books and her bunny, and to put her bed together. She took her copy of  _ Runaway Bunny _ and set it on the tiny window ledge beside her bed so she could see it.  _ If you run away, I will run after you. _ Her phone buzzed before  
  


**DIGG: We’re back. Thea’s with us.**

**DIGG: She’s alive and mostly well. She’s Thea.**

 

Felicity dropped the phone like a snake and pulled her hands back to her chest. Her whole body broke out in a cold sweat and for a moment, she thought she might vomit. It couldn’t be. But John would never lie to her about that. So it must be. A few feet away on the bedspread, the phone buzzed again.

 

**DIGG: There’s more to the story.**

**DIGG: Come by for dinner?**

 

Not only no, but fuck no. Felicity turned the phone off, wrapped herself in the guilt blanket, and turned her face to the wall.

 

* * *

 

_ The Third Night _

Someone sat down on the edge of the bed next to her. Felicity felt the mattress dip, sensed the presence. She wanted to, but she couldn’t wake up.

 

* * *

 

_ The Fourth Night _

Someone shook her awake. Felicity grumbled, reaching for her glasses. It was Intern B.

“Hunter?” she guessed.

“Tucker, actually. I’m sorry I had to wake you up.”

“It’s okay. I’m here. What’s incoming?”

“Nothing, it’s just...you were talking in your sleep.”

“Oh.” Felicity’s face went hot.

 

* * *

 

_ The Fifth Night _

Someone sat down on the edge of the bed next to her. Felicity felt the mattress dip, sensed the presence.

“Oliver?” she said, only it was slurred and mumbly.

 

* * *

 

_ The Fifth Night _

“Oliver,” she said, different, hopeful, brighter in the dream.

“I’d prefer that we didn’t do our usual ‘please don’t go’ dance.”

“We’re not going to. Because I’m coming with you.”

 

* * *

 

_ The Sixth Night _

Someone sat down on the edge of the bed next to her. Felicity felt the mattress dip, sensed the presence.

“Oliver?” she said, only it was slurred and mumbly.

She catapulted out of the dream, reaching out for no one, like a phantom limb.

 

* * *

 

_ The Seventh Night _

“Dr. Smoak. Dr. Smoak, wake up.”

“Parker?”

“Tucker.”

“What’s wrong?”

“You were, um, talking in your sleep again.”

“Talking?”

“Yelling. That you were going with.”

 

* * *

 

_ The Eighth Night _

Felicity had three unanswered calls and a myriad of texts from Digg, Lyla, and Digg and Lyla. She was avoiding them completely. This was not a great strategy. She was still talking to Palmer, or at least answering his texts. Everyone was set up at Palmer Tech, now that the lair was burned. Felicity didn’t want to be a part of it, not like she was, which was a hot mess.

She worked, and she stayed home, and she mostly slept. It was some kind of...emotional mono. But she loved her little trailer, her little safe place. On a day off, she was lucky to get one or two tasks done, like laundry or paying bills. Then she could retreat to her nest of pillows and blankets and fall asleep watching Netflix. 

It was safer here, of course, than out there.

 

* * *

 

_ The Ninth Night _

She paced the floor of Ilmari’s apartment.

“Is this about the family from today?” he asked, sipping his vodka rocks.

She nodded.

“It was bad.”

That was a profound understatement for a family annihilator who worked with a sawed off shotgun.

“It was worse for you?” Ilmari guessed.

“My father killed my mother and he would have killed me but I was on a sleepover because it was New Year’s Eve, Y2K.” It spilled out of her, like a burst abscess. “Please don’t tell anyone.”

“Of course not.” Ilmari was still, but unruffled. “Do you want a drink?”

“Yes. No. Yes.”

“I count that as a double.”

“I can’t go to sleep tonight. Do you have HBO? I don’t have HBO. I don’t have anything.”

 

* * *

 

_ The Tenth Night _

Someone sat down on the edge of the bed next to her. Felicity felt the mattress dip, sensed the presence.

“Oliver,” she whispered, somewhat wakefully.

He stood up and waited for her in the doorway.

 

* * *

 

_ The Eleventh Night _

She re-read Ann Rule: “Whatever the drawbacks are to being blessed with a conscience, the rewards are essential to living in a world with other human beings.”

She dreamed about Thea, except this time Felicity was part of the organ procurement team, taking the younger girl apart piece by piece, while Thea pleaded with them to stop.

 

* * *

 

_ The Twelfth Night _

Felicity drank cup after cup of coffee in the cafeteria.

 

* * *

 

_ The Thirteenth Night _

“Felicity.”

“Oliver,” she whispered, somewhat wakefully.

He was waiting for her in the doorway, holding a red igloo cooler with Thea’s heart inside.

 

* * *

 

Work was excruciating. There had been more than enough time for all kinds of rumor and speculation to work its way through the hospital. Everyone now knew that she was somehow linked to Oliver Queen and his tragically (formerly) brain dead sister. Everyone also knew that both the Queen siblings had disappeared from public view. Everyone wanted the story, but no one could decide if it was in poor taste to ask or not. As a result, she was being held at arm’s length by her co-workers, who were terrible at hiding their burning curiosity.

Ilmari and, to some extent, Rivera, were doing their best to pretend like it was business as usual. But they didn’t have the time or, more importantly, the energy to keep up the charade for twelve hour shifts. So Felicity kept her head down, often literally, and her eyes on her work, and hid in her stairwell as much as possible. That’s where she was, balancing a cafeteria tray on her knees, when Malcolm Merlyn found her.

This time, of course, there was no John Diggle to hide behind, so instead she threw her lunch at him. First the fruit cup, then the sandwich, then the pudding. Once again, her body wasn’t obeying the sound, reasonable advice of her brain. Was she going to defeat Malcolm Merlyn with hospital food? Not since Palmer Tech had revamped the cafeteria. Could she stop herself from trying? Never.

“What the hell are you doing?” Malcom hissed, dodging whole wheat and organic mandarin orange slices in turn.

“Fuck you.” Felicity stood up, held her tray like a bat, and began to beat him around the head.

“Would you--stop it, woman!”

“No.” And she did not stop until Malcolm, fed up, finally wrested the tray away from her. There was a little bit of banana pudding in his hair.

“I am not here to fight you.”

“That makes one of us.” She began patting down her pockets. Nothing. Could she strangle a man with a stethoscope? Would she be struck by Hippocratic lightning? She reached for her pocket.

“I assure you, you cannot kill me with a stethoscope.”

“I guess we’ll see.”

“I come in peace.”

Felicity rolled her eyes.

“I want to talk about Oliver.”

“Oh, fuck you again.”

“Felicity.” Malcolm took a breath. “We had a plan. Oliver and I. And he hasn’t made contact.”

Felicity crossed her arms over her chest.

“He was going to go under, prepare to ascend to Ra’s, and then we would make our play and dismantle the League. Then come back to you.”

“Bullshit.”

“Felicity, I swear to you, he always meant to return.”

“It’s been weeks, Malcolm. Where is he?”

“I don’t know,” he bit out. “But I think that it’s only a matter of time until he seeks you out.”

“You…? Explain.”

“It’s important that you not share any of what I’m about to tell you. I’d like your word.”

“I don’t really think you’re in a position to place conditions on me. If you didn’t need me, you never would have come slumming to Glades Memorial.”

“You’re...not wrong.” He grit his teeth. “When a new Ra’s prepares to take his place, there are three traditional tasks he must complete. At least two of those will bring him back to Starling. He’ll be obliged to kill the rival for his throne.”

“Nyssa.”

“And he’ll have to forever sever all ties with his homeland by razing it to the ground.”

“They’re going to make him destroy Starling?” Felicity couldn’t believe it. It didn’t make sense. “Did he know that? Going in, did he know that?”

“It is immaterial at this point. Dr. Smoak, I no longer think he’s pretending to be the Heir to the Demon. I think he is the Heir to the Demon. What do you know about thought reform?”

“A lot more than I did three weeks ago.” Felicity sat down on the cement stair, feeling more numb than defeated. “Digg told me they changed his name. That was a pretty good clue.”

“The League is very, very good at it. They have a comprehensive program of physical abuse, traditional psychotropic drugs, and social engineering.”

“But three weeks?” She didn’t really need to ask. She couldn’t set aside the fact that they were talking about a man who dressed up in masks and ran around at night putting arrows in people, who insisted he couldn’t be Oliver Queen and the Arrow and preferred the Arrow, whose masked alter ego had just died very publicly. She was not a shrink, but she didn’t need to be to know that was a blow to his identity.

“They are very, very good. Believe me.” 

She narrowed her eyes. “Then how did you make it?”

“What?”

“You joined the League. How did you make it out?”

“I had Tommy to think of.”

“And Moira.”

“And Moira.” He looked like he’d rather have hit her than answered her.

“And you think he’s going to come back for me.”

“No matter how well he’s been conditioned. And when he does, you have to remind him of who he is. Or we will lose the battle for control of the League, Starling will burn, and you will lose Oliver, forever.” He turned his back to her and headed for the push-bar door.

“What’s the last thing?” she asked.

“What?”

“The third thing that a new Ra’s has to do. What is it?”

“Marry.”

 

* * *

 

_ The Fourteenth Night _

She was buried under rubble, under the city. She reached for her walkie talkie and grasped it.

“Detective?” she whispered. “Are you still there?”

“I’m so sorry,” said Oliver. “I thought I could be me and the Arrow, but I can’t. Not now. Maybe not ever.”

“Help me,” she whispered, her voice muted by dream logic. “Oliver, help me.”

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “Not now. Maybe not ever.”

 

* * *

 

_ The Fifteenth Night _

It was the procurement dream again. This time, Thea reached into her own belly to pull out her liver.

“Are you happy now?” she asked. “Is this what you wanted?”

 

* * *

 

_ The Sixteenth Night _

“Oliver,” she said, desperate, begging.

“I’d prefer that we didn’t do our usual ‘please don’t go’ dance.”

“We’re not going to. Because I’m coming with you.”

Oliver shook his head.

“I am. I won’t let you leave me this time. I won’t.”

She woke up already sitting in her bed, the word  _ wait _ on her tongue.

 

* * *

 

_ The Seventeenth Night _

“Felicity.”

“Oliver,” she whispered, somewhat wakefully.

He was waiting for her in the doorway, holding Sara’s mask and wig.

 

* * *

 

_ The Eighteenth Night _

“Felicity.”

“Oliver,” she whispered, somewhat wakefully.

He was waiting for her in the doorway, holding her stethoscope.

 

* * *

 

_ The Nineteenth Night _

“Felicity.”

“Oliver,” she whispered, somewhat wakefully.

He was waiting for her in the doorway, holding a sword dripping with blood.  
  


* * *

 

_ The Twentieth Night _

“Felicity.”

“Oliver,” she whispered, somewhat wakefully.

He was waiting for her in the doorway, holding a dead dog.

 

* * *

 

Without thinking too much about it, Felicity accepted Lyla’s next invitation to dinner. She was going to have to, sooner or later, and three weeks was approaching later. She might as well get it over with. She hadn’t decided whether or not to tell the Diggles what Malcolm had revealed about the League’s plans. But she did want to sit down and have a relatively normal conversation over John’s excellent turkey burgers.

Alas, it was not to be.

“Hi, Felicity.” It was Thea. In the second Merlyn ambush of the day.

“Shit!” Felicity said, and then clapped her hands over her mouth and backed away. Her heart stopped, then started, then started racing. Thea was very, very much alive. And functioning. And like four feet in front of her.

“Felicity?” Diggle poked his head out of the kitchen.

“She didn’t know I’d be here,” Thea guessed.

“I’m sorry, I thought you knew,” John said.

Felicity shook her head, frozen.

“Lyla,” he muttered, and approached the two of them. “Listen, come in and sit down. Take a breath.”

“Am I…” Thea’s voice cracked. “Am I that scary?”

Felicity shook her head again.

“Then what’s wrong with me?” Thea asked, and began to cry.

“Okay,” John said. “Let’s all sit down.” He took Felicity by the elbow, gently removed her messenger bag from her shoulder, and steered her towards the sofa. They sat down together, with Thea across from them on an Ottoman. Felicity felt like it was happening to someone else.

“Why won’t she say anything?” Thea asked John.

“Oh, well.” He darted a glance at Felicity, maybe as an apology or for permission. “Sometimes she has trouble talking when things get heavy, you know, personally.”

“Oh.” Thea looked like she was processing that, and brushed her tears away. “I’m sorry.”

Now Felicity started crying. She leaned forward, elbows on knees, and covered her eyes while John rubbed her back.

“Is she okay?”

“She’s fine, just give her a minute.”

Felicity, eyes still covered, heard Lyla approach and place a glass of red wine in front of her on the table. John and Lyla had a small aside, probably about her. It took a few minutes, but Felicity was able to take a shaky breath, wipe her eyes, and drain the glass of wine. It was refilled.

“S-sorry,” she managed to say. “I’m so sorry.”

“What?” Thea said. “No, you don’t have to be sorry.”

“I do, though.” Felicity took another gulp of wine, set it down, and with her hands hid her face from the younger woman again. “I told him not take you. I didn’t believe him. I told him you weren’t a science experiment. I would have let you die.”

Two hands reached out, taking Felicity’s away from her face. Thea held her wrists firmly, her gaze steady.

“I would rather have died,” she said, “than let my brother throw his life away on me. What you were going to do was the right thing.”

Felicity shook her head.

“It’s not your fault,” Thea said.

“But it’s not your fault either.”

 

* * *

 

_ The Twenty-First Night _

“Oliver,” she whispered, somewhat wakefully.

He was waiting for her in the doorway.

“Oliver?” She sat up, glanced at the clock, glanced at the shadow. She felt awake.

“Oliver Queen is alive only in the past,” said Oliver.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tune in next time for: wtf is she going to do with the end of this weird ass season it is a complete mystery especially to her.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oliver.”
> 
> “Oliver Queen lives only in the past.” The shadow was not Oliver shaped--the clothes were wrong. The voice was close, though.
> 
> “But...Oliver?” Felicity blinked, fumbled for her glasses. Checked the clock again. She had been sleeping intensely. It was possible she was still very much asleep, that this was a new horrible permutation of the recurring dream. There was rain this time, real pelting rain, which was also new.
> 
> “Oliver Queen is dead.”
> 
> “You don’t usually...talk.”
> 
> “How would you know?”
> 
> “Oh, well. Good point.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated M for I haven't written smut in ages, forgive me.

_ It’s like forgetting the words to your favorite song, _

_ You can’t believe it, you were always singing along. _

_ It was so easy and the words so sweet. _

_ You can’t remember; you try to move your feet. _

_ It was so easy and the words so sweet. _

_ You can’t remember; you try to feel the beat. _

-Regina Spektor, “Eet”

  
  


**Starling Exurbs, 2015**

“Oliver.”

“Oliver Queen lives only in the past.” The shadow was not Oliver shaped--the clothes were wrong. The voice was close, though.

“But...Oliver?” Felicity blinked, fumbled for her glasses. Checked the clock again. She had been sleeping intensely. It was possible she was still very much asleep, that this was a new horrible permutation of the recurring dream. There was rain this time, real pelting rain, which was also new.

“Oliver Queen is dead.”

“You don’t usually...talk.”

“How would you know?”

“Oh, well. Good point.” She was not awake; she pushed herself up to sitting. “Do you mind if I turn on the light?”

“Why would I mind?”

“This is very Socratic for a dream,” she muttered, and reached for the small light built in to the slim bulkhead above her. It clicked on, casting warm shadows in his direction. Felicity sucked in her breath. It was definitely him, at least almost. “You look really good with your hair like that.”

Not-Oliver tilted his head and narrowed his eyes.

“I have a brain-to-mouth filter problem. You know that. You do know that?”

“I did not.”

“Okay.” Felicity took a deep breath. “Are you dripping on my floor?”

“I am,” he said, after examining the small puddle underneath him.

“Well. Take your clothes off.” Felicity’s heart was now pounding. She could smell wet leather and the blue-green scent that the rain carried outside the city. “You must be freezing. You can hang them up in the shower to drip dry. There’s a towel there, too.”

He was still looking at her strangely, but he obeyed, walking away from the bed end of the Airstream and into the tiny bathroom at the kitchen end opposite. Felicity stood up quickly, her teeth chattering with nerves and cold. Last night, she’d fallen asleep in a worn-to-shabby-baggy tank top and gray sweatpants stolen from the lair. She wrapped the cashmere blanket around her and went into the kitchen, avoiding the puddle Not-Oliver had made. There, she lit the Nugget’s tiny galley stove and put on some milk to heat. She had an intense urge to giggle Right. Cocoa. That would do it. Just some magic fucking cocoa. That’ll bring him right back.

The door to the tiny lavatory opened and he walked out in just the towel--and it didn’t look all that secure around his hips either. He was maybe ten inches away and she could actually feel the warmth of his presence. It wasn’t a damn metaphor after all.

“Moshe Rabbeinu,” she whispered. Suddenly her face was hot and then her entire body was hot. “Um.” There was a noticeable squeak in her voice. “I’m making cocoa.”

“I see.”

“Why don’t you go sit down. Over there.”

Not-Oliver, towel cavalier, walked the few (but crucial) steps towards her little dinette. There was a new scar. He sat down. Felicity tried to keep her eyes on her work, pulling the cocoa, sugar, vanilla, and salt out of the cupboard.

“How did you find me?” she asked, as she continued to stir, sneaking looks at him.

“I don’t know.” He frowned. “You weren’t where I left you.”

“Oh?” Felicity added the cocoa and sugar, eyeballing the amounts after realizing her hands were shaking too hard for finesse. “Where did you leave me?”

“A few places.”

“Do you want amaretto in yours?”

“Amaretto.”

“It’s a liqueur. Delicious in hot chocolate. My mom’s special recipe for children who won’t go to bed. All her specials involved booze.”

“I’ll try it.”

“It really is good.” Felicity rummaged in the small, overcrowded pantry until she found the bottle.

“Is your mother dead?” he asked. Conversationally, the way you would ask:  _ Is that your purse? _

“Yeah.” She swallowed, adding a little vanilla to the pot. Did he remember that? Was he guessing? Had the Nanda Parbat assassin quaaludes worn off?  _ Don’t push him. Don’t push him. _ “Sorry, I don’t have any marshmallows.”

“I’m sure I don’t need them.” 

She poured their cocoa into her favorite patriarchy-slaying-slogan mugs and added a healthy splash of amaretto to each one. Then she walked over carefully to the table and sat down next to him, on the same bench, so they were shoulder to shoulder. He seemed bemused, but scooted down to make room for her.

“How did you find me?” she asked again, testing the drink and finding more than satisfactory.

He shrugged.

“Oliver, how did you find me?”

“My name is Al Sah-him.” Al Sah-him, heir to the demon, sipped his cocoa, dead behind the eyes.

“Okay, sure, but how did you find me?” 

“I tried to think about where you would go.” He scowled at the drink.

“Do you like it?”

“Maybe.”

“I’ve never made it for you before, you know.” She took a drink, praying for Dutch courage. Then she turned sideways on the bench, closer to facing him. “How did you know where I would go?”

“Somewhere clean,” he said without thinking. “Away from the city, but not too far. You like small spaces. You like neighbors. You used to live in trailer parks. I found the nicest trailer park.”

“It is really nice.” She felt light-headed and it wasn’t just the amaretto. Her belly was feeling light-headed, too. “I’m glad you found me.” Rolling the mug between her palms, she cleared her throat. “Do you know why you went looking for me?”

“No,” he said, displeased.

“Maybe you missed me? I know I missed you.”

“What happened here?” He was so close that it was nothing to reach out and touch the scar above her collarbone with his calloused thumb. The blanket had slipped.

“Oh that.” Unconsciously, Felicity leaned into the touch, twisting further towards him. “That was William Tockman. He was aiming for Sara. For Ta-er al Sahfer. He hit my shoulder instead. She stitched it for me and she wouldn’t let you watch after you tried to take my shirt off.”

Using only the back of his hand, Not-Oliver pushed her blanket-wrap away from her shoulders. She broke out in goosebumps; she was not cold.

“There are more scars,” he observed.

“You, too.” Very lightly, she touched the new pink mark on his back. “Shit. Is this a brand?”

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s not healing very well.” It was Felicity’s turned to frown. “You’re thin, too. Are they not feeding you?”

“I eat what I am given; I do what is required.”

“Do you remember this one?” This time, she reached for the star on his chest. “You never told me how you earned it.”

Not-Oliver shrugged. “It is immaterial.”

“I still would have liked to have known.” She touched a spot above his collarbone that was almost an exact mirror to her Tockman scar. “I remember this one really well. You got shot and you called me for help and--”

“And you came?”

“Of course I came. You bled all over my Honda and I thought you were going to die in my car and I’d be charged with murder.”

This time he reached with both hands and removed the blanket entirely. The rough skin of his palms was...a sensation. She knew he could see the pulse in her throat. She knew her nipples were hard.

“Can I…” he reached out, brushed her wild sleep hair behind one ear, only to have it spring back into her face.

“You can. Anything.”

“You have a tattoo?”

“I have a couple,” Felicity admitted.

“Show me.”

She slid away from him, but he caught her by the left arm. 

“What’s this?” He turned her arm, looking at her elbow and forearm.

“Ah. Well, Malcolm--um, Al Sahir. He tried to bury my home with an earthquake. But you made sure he didn’t.”

“You were hurt.”

“I was trying to be a hero. It was dumb.” 

She was vaguely embarrassed and pulled away successfully to stand up. Then, feeling as exposed as she ever had, she turned so that he could see her back. Behind her, she heard him stand. He put warm hands on her shoulders, positioning her. Then he slid the straps of her tank top off her shoulders. Felicity inhaled and immediately raised her hands to her chest to keep it from sliding off.

“You said anything,” Not-Oliver reminded her.

“Yeah. I did.” Exhaling slowly through pursed lips, she let go and the tank top puddled at her waist.

“This is beautiful.” He traced the sturdy branch of magnolia, the blossoms and leaves, and the serpent that wound and round and through it. Goosebumps broke out all over her body. “The snake has no fangs.”

“It’s asklepian,” she said. “It’s the symbol of medicine. It has no fangs to show that it has no poison. It only does good.”

“I don’t remember this.”

“You only saw it once, for a moment. You told me then that you felt the scar tissue, under the magnolias.”

“I feel it now.”

“Do you want to know how I got it?”

“I do.”

“Then say my name.” She turned around very carefully. Every naked inch of her torso was a live wire. “Say my name.”

“I don’t know your name.” He looked away. She reached out and pressed her palm into his chest, just above his heart, so she could feel it. He palmed one of her breasts and Felicity tried to remember what her mission was again. His hands were  _ hot _ when they touched her there.

“You know me,” she said. “You knew where to look. You’ve known me for years.”

He stepped forward, leaned down, buried his face in her hair. Felicity’s entire body, right down to the tips of that hair, ached to be touched by him.  _ Steady on. Steady on. _

“What is that scent? I know that scent.”

“It’s neroli. My shampoo,” she said, somewhat breathless. 

“I remember it,” he murmured beside her ear. “I liked it.”

“Do you still like it?”

“I do.” He raised his head, pushed her hair away from her face, and ran his thumb over her nipple. “I like this, too.”

“Oh,” she almost panted. “Good.”

Then he reached out and put her hands on her hips. He looked her in the eye once, and she nodded, and then he tore her tank top in two, tossing it aside. One savvy tug and the sweats were on the floor at her feet.  _ Don’t. Freak. Out. _ Not-Oliver was regarding her like an intern seeing their first open chest and beating heart. Fascinated, drawn in, a little afraid. Felicity could not remember what underwear she had on.

“Have I seen this before?” he asked.

“No.”

“Good.” Not-Oliver put his hands at her waist. “I like to think I would have remembered.”

“Say my name,” she said. “And I’ll tell you about the magnolias.”

“What magnolias?” he asked and reached down, hooking the side of her thong with his thumb and slowly dragging it down until it cleared her hips. Already at just the right height, he kissed her Tockman scar.

“Oh my--”

Then he kissed her on the lips. Felicity lost it, then, and threw herself at him. She put her arms up around his neck and pulled him down and generally tried to press as much of herself against him as she could. Getting the idea, Not-Oliver pulled the towel off, and she was not looking down, but that was an impressive erection she was feeling. Then he lifted her up like she was some kind of delicate flower type, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, hooking her ankles at the small of his back. 

“You feel--” he gasped.

“You too. Bed’s that way. Don’t bump my head.” Then she went back to nuzzling his neck, looking for that Oliver smell that he was missing. Was it the Old Spice? Maybe it was. Maybe he just needed to sweat a little. “That can be arranged,” she murmured.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

He stepped forward and knelt on the bed before he laid her down. She was totally naked with totally naked Almost-Oliver Queen. There wasn’t time to run through any of the ways this could and would go wrong. All of her blood flow was being diverted and he was looking at her with some kind of concern.

“Did I love you?” he asked. “I think I loved you.”

“I think you did,” she answered. “Say my name.”

He lay down on top of her and now she could feel his erection against her mons, and then her cleft. Groaning, she leaned her head back and prayed to somebody, anybody, for a little self-control, a little more time.  _ Oh fuck _ . Now he was rubbing himself against her, feeling her slickness, getting them both ready.

“You know it,” she begged, placing her hands on his shoulders. “Say it. Before we--do this. Please, know who I am.”

Almost-Oliver took her hands, put them in one of his, and pinned them on the mattress above her head. She had never been looked at like this before, not by another human being.

“Please.”

“You’re my girl,” he said. “Always my girl.”

“Close enough.” Felicity bucked her hips up towards him.

That was all they needed. He released her hands, balanced himself. He was at her entrance, and then the whole, firm length of him began to slide inside her.

“Oh, holy shit,” Felicity breathed. “Slow down, I--slow down.”

Almost-Oliver only grunted, but he did pause while she tried not to cheer or possibly cry. Six to five and pick ‘em.

“It’s just it’s been...I haven’t...holy shit. Okay, okay. Go.”

He went slower, now, and Felicity began to re-experience that feeling she’d forgotten, mostly because she hadn’t had sex (much less good sex) in ages. There was something so...satisfying about being filled by someone who could really fill you up, who could touch all your inside places. She could not remember their latin names at the moment. 

“Better?” he asked, voice growly.

“Best.”

Then he started to move. She should have known, with his reputation and his physicality, that he would be good at this. But the truth was that so few men knew how to really  _ use leverage _ to get the job done. This man was very, very good at physics. She re-positioned herself, hiking one knee up so that he could twist just so as he thrust inside her. Someone was humming with pleasure and it was definitely her.

“You make that noise,” Almost-Oliver said, “when I bring you Thai iced tea late at night.”

“I do?” Felicity giggled. “Sometimes John brings me drinks, too.”

“You don’t moan for anyone but me.” It was unclear if that was a statement, a promise, or a threat.

“How would you know?” she panted. “You don’t even know my name.”

Almost-Oliver responded by pulling her hips closer her and slapping her on the ass. Felicity made a noise of surpirse and then slapped his ass right back. It was exquisitely firm. Like, Olympic hockey player firm. His ass was Gold Medal material.

“You always talk back.” That was definitely a statement.

“I can’t help it. You’re always wrong.”

Then he smiled-- _ he smiled _ \--and smacked her again. Not to be outdone, she smacked right back.

“This is what we do.”

“Not usually this exactly,” she said.

“How are you still talking back?” he half-laughed.

“Make me stop, then.”

He narrowed his eyes, lost his smile, and went to work. Felicity hung on to him, digging her fingernails in when he began to tease her clitoris with his left hand, while he supported himself with the right. How did a man get so good at-- _ holy fucking shit _ .

“You’re close,” he said, smug, but his breath was ragged, too, and she could feel the urgency in his body. He only pushed harder now, faster.

“Oliver,” she said hoarsely. “Oliver--I--” She threw her head back against the sheets, mouth open, but speechless. Her body was tightening around his, pulling him in closer, pulling  _ Oliver _ in closer, and it was blowing her fucking mind. She was shaking with it, and then he was coming too, pushing his hipbones into hers one last time 

This was another thing she’d somehow forgotten about sex during her...hiatus. How nice it was to hold another person on top of you, even if he was sweaty and very muscly and maybe making it hard to breathe. She wrapped her arms around his chest and her legs around his hips like some kind of post-coital octopus and squeezed, wanting more of the feel of him. He was completely relaxed, his head hanging beside hers, so their ears brushed.

“Felicity?”

“Yeah?” She blinked a little sweat of her eyes. “I can’t believe we waited so long to do that. Why did we wait so long to do that?”

“Felicity?” He lifted his head, suddenly not so completely relaxed.

“Yeah? Oh--fuck. Yeah. Oliver?”

“Yeah.”

He was trembling, which she had thought was just the aftershocks of the earth-shattering orgasm she hoped she’d delivered. But now maybe something else, too. She released her tentacle grip and Oliver rolled off to face her. Rubbing his back with one hand, she turned off the light and then reached down to pull the covers up over them.

“I’m shaking.”

“You’re okay. I think you’re just a little shocky.”

“Why?”

“I think your brain’s trying to wrap itself around a pole.”

“Oh.”

“Are you remembering a little?”

“I think so,” he said, around teeth that clattered.

“Come here, tateleh.” She pulled him tight into her, running her hand up and down his back. She kissed the place where his neck met his shoulders. She twined the fingers of her free hand with his. “You’re okay. You’re with me now.”

“You never said how you got the scars. Under the magnolia.”

“Oh. I bailed out of a Cadillac accelerating up an entrance ramp to I-93 on the way out of Boston.”

“What?” There was that note of moral outrage she knew and loved.

“See, if you go to college for all four of the years, things really start to come together.”

He grunted disapproval, and buried his head against her shoulders, still shaking. She was almost positive he was warming up and drifting off when he came to with a sudden jolt.

“Shh. You need to sleep.”

“No, I have to meet back up with the League. I have to meet Malcolm. He probably thinks--”

“Please, Oliver, you have to just lay in this bed for a couple hours, okay?” She tried to keep the panic out of her voice. She was powerless really, to stop him from leaving, but if he left now, she might just die of it.

“I was supposed to--”

“I know. But before that, you need to just give your body a chance to sync back up with your brain, okay? I’m pretty sure you’re coming off of a lot of weird ass drugs and some light brainwashing. So you’re going to sleep for a couple hours, wake up, eat what I feed you, and then we’re going to do the next thing.”

“You’ll wake me up?”

“I promise. Close your eyes.”

He did. Felicity continued to rub his back and slow, even breaths, knowing it might trick his body into doing the same. The rain pattered against the shell of the Airstream, adding a little white noise. It was dark outside the city, in a comfortable way. And all the neighbors were quiet, this being a school night.

“Neroli,” he muttered, half-sleeping already. “I like it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that scene turned into a whole chapter. Anywho, friendly reminder that you cannot sex someone into better mental health. Possibly a better mood, though.


	21. Chapter 21

_ The best way of keeping a secret is to pretend there isn’t one. _

-Margaret Atwood,  _ The Blind Assassin _

 

**Starling Exurbs, 2015**

Felicity, for obvious reasons, could not sleep. She could relax, because she was compelled by  a large, warm man passed out half on top of her. Conscious of the acute pleasure of it, she brushed her fingers over and over his damp and drying hair. It was short and a little prickly. He was bonelessly asleep there, beside her, harder asleep than she’d ever seen. Probably some combination of sex and whatever it was they gave baby assassins to make them grow up big and strong.

Oliver was unconscious and clearly a more than a little fucked up, which meant she was going to have to do most of the thinking for them. The plans he made on his own were never good and she doubted they’d gotten better in Nanda Parbat. So she spent her time in the dark, watching the clock, thinking as hard as she ever had.  _ I was asleep, but my heart was wakeful. _ Well that was not the verse for the moment. She set it aside.

At a little after three in the morning, she slipped out from under Oliver. He rolled onto his stomach and muttered something in what she assumed was Arabic. G-d have mercy, but he was the most handsome man. She couldn’t believe her luck. Of course, there had been quite a lot of bad luck and sweat and tears and blood prior. Sure, they were probably all going to die at the hands of a bunch of trumped up ninjas. But still. Naked Oliver. In  _ her _ bed.

It was hard to not to smile as she scouted out a clean pair of underwear and a t-shirt. She made coffee and started cooking oatmeal in the biggest pot she had. She stirred a full stick of butter in--he really was thin--and only a few spoonfuls of sugar. She could always add more to hers later. The coffee she made extra, extra strong, the way she used to in her intern year. If he was good, she might even share it with Oliver.

He woke up more slowly than she had thought, which made her again suspect ninja drugs. She believed in her own sexual prowess, probably more than a lot of people, but not even Mata Hari could make Oliver Queen sleep through anything louder than a mouse dropping. He twitched and stirred for a few minutes while she watched the oatmeal cook. It wasn’t until she was setting the table that he sucked in a huge breath and sat bolt upright.

“It’s okay,” Felicity said. “It’s me. Just me. We’re in the nugget. My trailer.”

He was breathing like he’d he’d just finished some of those ridiculous jumping-over-things exercises that he and Digg loved. A dream, maybe. She knew how that went. But she didn’t like the shifty look on his face, either. Her stomach sank.

“Are you...you?”

“I’m me.” He scrubbed his hand across his face. “How long did I sleep?”

“Just a couple hours. But I’d be happier to keep you in bed for a week.” She stirred the oatmeal three times before her ears caught up with her brain. “Oh, shit. I didn’t mean it. I mean, I did. I did mean it. The other way. Or maybe both ways. Please come in here and eat some breakfast so I can stop talking.”

“Felicity,” he said quietly, and stood up smiling softly, and still naked and blissfully unawares. He walked barefoot over to her. And kissed her on the top of her head. He smelled so, so good. “I missed you.”

“I made oatmeal.”

“I like oatmeal.” He kissed the corner of her mouth.

“Will you put some pants on? I can’t work like this.”

His smile got bigger, but he did find her Arrow lair sweatpants and put them on while she dished out breakfast and laid it on the table of her little dinette. The interior of the nugget seemed so much smaller with him in it. He was not really a travel-sized person, not at all convenient. They sat side by side again, nudged up against each other.

“So,” she said, once he’d started on his oatmeal. “Malcolm told me there was a plan, but he was dodgy about the details. Do you remember it?”

“Yeah.”

“Finish your oatmeal and then tell me.”

Oliver did.

“I knew it would be bad,” Felicity said. “But...let me just make sure I have this right. You go to Nanda Parbat where your only line of communication with the outside world will be Malcolm Merlyn, compulsive liar. Then, knowing Ra’s will ask you to kill Nyssa, you retrieve her by using your best friend’s wife as bait and then return Nyssa to her father where you intend to protect her by appealing to his alleged soft spot. Then when it’s time to return to Starling to raze the city, you turn it into a kamikaze mission by forcing the plane down with all hands. Was that more or less the plan?”

“More or less.”

“Oliver!” She covered her face. “Oliver, no.”

“It was the only way.”

She groaned.

“At least now I--”

“Don’t finish that sentence. I beg you.”

“Felicity.” He reached out and gently pulled one of her hands away and held it. “I have to--”

“Don’t finish that sentence either.” With her free hand, she took a bracing cup of coffee. “Okay. New plan. If you’re going to do stupid stuff, we’re going to do stupid stuff. And before you say something like you can’t let me or whatever, please explain to me how you got to my place last night.”

Oliver looked down at his oatmeal.

“If you’re going to do stupid stuff,” she repeated, squeezing his hand for emphasis. “We’re going to do stupid stuff.”

“I don’t want to put you in any danger.”

“Don’t worry.” The madcap smile escaped again. “I have a plan. But first, we’re going to need a safe word.”

 

* * *

 

“Jesus H. Christ, Smoak! I could have killed you! I thought you were breaking in!”

“Shh,” Felicity said, elbowing through the door into what was now Sin’s tiny apartment. “You didn’t call the cops, did you?”

“I’d rather you murdered me in my bed, thank you very much.” Sin retreated, shutting the door. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

“Um.” Felicity shifted her weight. “How’s work?”

“Kesha makes me clock in and out for lunch. It’s bullshit. What are you doing here?”

“I need you to deliver a message for me. In person.”

“Like, a letter?”

“No, nope. You have to memorize it. You cannot write it down or type it anywhere. No matter what. You have to memorize it.”

“Are you high?” Sin asked, looking genuinely concerned. “You can tell me if you’re high.”

“I’m not high! I’m doing a favor for our…” She looked back at the door. “Our mutual friend. In leather.”

“Oh. Oh!”

“You need to find Laurel Lance and tell her exactly what I’m about to tell you.” Felicity caught a brief expression of sorrow at the mention of Sara’s sister, but it couldn’t be helped. “Understand?”

“Smoak and Vigilante, sitting in a tree.”

“Sin!”

“Come on. Didn’t I ever tell you about the Jesus freak trivia competitions I won in elementary? My granddad used to beat Bible verses into me, and I mean literally. That’s why I tried LSD. To see if I could get all the begats of my head.”

“I know I’m going to regret asking this. But did it work?”

“Nope. Want me to do a number for you from Matthew?”

“No. Let’s get back to the message.”

“Fine, but I just want you to know that somewhere out there are multiple children named Zorobabel, and it’s Matthew’s fault.”

“Sin. Eyes on the prize.”

 

* * *

 

She slipped back into the alleyway where Oliver, and/or Al Sah-him, was waiting. There was something slipshod about the way he carried himself, like he wanted to roll his shoulders back and let the League’s leather-plated armor slip off and down.

“Sin’s in,” Felicity said.

“Good.” Oliver was not a fidgety man. Well, Oliver occasionally fidgeted. The Hood rarely did and Al Sah-him would not be capable of it. “Are you ready?”

“Of course.” She reached out and grabbed his gloved hand. “Oliver, be him. I trust you to stay you. I trust you.”

“With your life?”

“And yours.” She squeezed his hand, not gently, until she could make out the bones under the calfskin. “I’m ready.”

Oliver picked up the phone and called John.

“First, let me assure you that no harm will come to Felicity if you do exactly as I say. Send Nyssa to the warehouse at Fullerton and Halstead, and I’ll let the girl go.”

 

* * *

 

She had seen Oliver be the Vigilante, the Hood, the CEO, the big brother, and the prodigal son. Watching him become Al Sah-him turned her stomach, like watching a snake slither back into its skin. His expression, his personality, his heart, they ossified in front of her over the course of minutes. Efficiently and dispassionate, he bound her hands in front of her, careful to pull down the cuffs of her MIT sweatshirt to cover the white skin of her wrists. The knots weren’t painfully tight, but they were certainly...secure. He attached a lead to her and led her through the night like a dog.

The light wasn’t good and she tripped occasionally, even though she was in her most comfortable sneakers. He never slowed, never reached back a hand. Anyone could be watching. All of this was necessary. It was an unpleasantness she would survive, and happily, to spare Starling the wrath of the League. As Fetter liked to say: better a bad peace than a good war.

There was only one bad moment, on the way to the rendezvous, when an enthusiastic beat cop caught them in the beam of his flashlight. He shouted for them to stop, walking towards them quickly. Oliver backed against a nearby wall, hiding himself in the shadows, and yanked her towards him. She stumbled against him, hiding at least some of his League get up. 

“Kiss,” he said and she didn’t have time to figure out whose voice it was--Oliver or Al Sah-him-- before he was on and around her. Again, she was struck that the smell was wrong. It was an Al Sah-him smell. But the scratch of his cheek against hers, his breath hot on her neck as he bent to her neck--that was Oliver. Felicity would have bet the house. But she might have lost.

“Get a room, pal,” the beat cop said, but amused. “The girl’s still in her pajamas, for Chrissakes.”

“They’re yoga pants,” Felicity muttered into Oliver’s sternum.

“I’ll do that, Officer.”

The cop moved on. Felicity absolutely did not allow herself to wonder if, had he continued to pry, the cop would have been allowed to see daylight. She took just a moment to bring her hands to her lips. It was not her favorite kiss and she wiped it away. Then Oliver had her reins again, leading.  _ I must rise and roam the town, through the streets and through the squares. _ She cast the anxious part of her mind backwards, through the years, to see if she could remember the Hebrew. That would help keep her brain busy at least.

When they arrived at the meeting place, it was not hard to look scared because it was not hard to feel scared. It was a deep hole, frosted lightly with murderers for hire. Felicity was not great at long-form dissimulation, but it turned out she wouldn’t need to. You didn’t have to act like a sacrificial lamb if you were the sacrificial lamb. Her jaw ached from being clenched. Only one other man was unmasked, and from the description, it could only be Maseo-Sarab. He was a man who might be helpful, or not. Felicity directed her questions to him as Oliver directed her to a chair.

“I’m not sure why I’m here,” she said aloud as she sat. The best lies were always close to the truth. “I have a shift in like two hours, maybe. They’re counting on me to be there. I’m a good person,” she added. “I mean. Good-ish. I pay my taxes. I’m not rich. I actually have like 400k in student debt. So if this is like...a ranson type situation, you might want to see if you can’t get hold of a dermatologist or an orthodontist. Also, and I’m not trying to be nosy, but that guy looks a lot like Oliver Queen.”

“Should I gag her?” Maseo asked, turning his back to her.

“No,” Oliver said flippantly. “I’ve chosen her.”

Felicity sat wide-eyed, watching the two men and trying to divine the subtext by the body language. Of course, they didn’t have any body language.

“Chosen her for what?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

The conversation, as disturbing as it was fascinating, was cut short by the sound of footsteps.  _ Please be Nyssa. Please be Nyssa. Please be Nyssa. Yes. _ Felicity’s favorite assassin looked bored, like she always did when she wasn’t actively beating on someone.

“I’m here.” Nyssa lifted her chin, looking tiny and fearless. 

“Kneel before the true heir to the Demon.”

“I kneel before no one,” she sneered.

“Fine.” Oliver’s face had no expression at all. “Sarab, bring the girl.”

Felicity was abruptly on her feet, stumbling after the taut leash. She tripped and almost fell, but caught herself. Sarab did not even look behind him as he led her into the darkness.

“That was not the arrangement,” Nyssa said quickly. “It was an even exchange.”

“If you show no loyalty to the League,” Oliver said, “the League will show no loyalty to you.”

Felicity glanced over her shoulder to see even more ninja types appear from unlikely crevices and shadows to surround Nyssa and Oliver. It struck her how utterly Oliver’s ability to keep her safe depended on his authority here. 

“This is a mistake!” Nyssa hissed while they bound her hands behind her. 

“Her, you can gag,” Oliver ordered.

The plane wasn’t far. It looked like it had once hauled cargo. Like, maybe for the filming of  _ Apocalypse Now _ . Sarab chained her to an interior panel and left her. Felicity sat down slowly, leaning her head back against the metal. She had to use her feet to help brace herself during takeoff so she didn’t slide backwards towards the tail. But other than that it wasn’t too uncomfortable. When they had ascended and the temperature dropped, Sarab brought her a wool blanket. He wrapped it around her shoulders for her.

“Thanks,” she said.

“The Heir to the Demon’s Head wishes you to be comfortable,” he replied.

“He does?” Felicity searched his face.

“He has chosen you.”

“Oh boy.” Her stomach lurched. This was the plan. This was an unpleasantness she could survive. She closed her eyes.  _ Awake, O North Wind. Come, O South Wind.  _

“No harm will come to you,” Sarab assured her.

“I have work,” she said absently. “I have a shift. At the hospital.”

“Your work is still before you.”

She couldn’t help but open her eyes and look up at Oliver then. He was seated on one of the benches bolted to the walls of the plane, across from her but more towards the cockpit. His arms were crossed and he gazed at nothing in particular. Felicity looked back at Sarab, meeting his eyes for the first time.

“I’m afraid,” she admitted.

“Fear will not serve you, where we are going.”

Felicity huddled in her blanket and rested her head on her knees. She was still cold, but her sleepless night and the steady rhythm of the plane lulled her into a doze anyway. Her dream was about being on a road trip with Fetter. They were in his old, beige, anonymous sedan. The backseat was full of suitcases and snacks, but he wouldn’t tell her where they were going. Felicity woke when the landing gear was lowered. There were two more blankets laid over her, but she did not know who had put them there.

“Did you sleep well?” Nyssa asked drily. She was chained, much more thoroughly, next to Felicity.

“Yes. Where are we?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why did they take me?” Felicity asked. 

Nyssa narrowed her eyes. Everything would depend on how cooperative she wanted to be over the next few days. She had the power to ruin Felicity’s cover at any moment. She could ruin everything for everyone. Or she could help them kill her own father.

“Why did they take me?” Felicity repeated.

“I assume to be my father’s whore.”

Felicity’s mouth actually fell open.

“Only the Ra’s is permitted to have his own mates. Didn’t they tell you?”

“No,” she whispered. “They didn’t.”

“I suppose if you’re lucky, an exception will be made for Al Sah-him. But you will still, of course, be subject to my father’s...review.”

Well. She and Oliver were definitely doing stupid stuff together now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm slow! And distracted by vacation. Anywho. Hope you enjoyed it! 
> 
> (As always, please let me know if you spot any glaring errors. Vacation brain.)


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry about the delay. Life and a certain lack of brain juice made this one a little harder to wrap up. Sorry if it's rougher than usual.

_ Isn’t it a bit unnerving that doctors call what they do practice? _

-George Carlin

 

**Nanda Parbat, 2015**

Felicity’s nerves were strung about as tight as they could be without snapping. Nyssa had remained close-lipped for the remainder of their journey, choosing to glare daggers in Oliver’s direction in a very convincing manner. For her part, Felicity stared at the floor, tried to stretch occasionally, and prayed she’d end up as Oliver’s concubine. These were the breaks.

By the time they landed, everything hurt. Being chained to a plane all the way to the Hindu Kush made her long for the sardine aura of flying coach. She didn’t even have a cushion. By the time they landed, she felt every individual bone in her body. When Sarab uncuffed her and lifted her up by the elbow, Felicity’s right ankle rolled away and she fell back to her knees. She felt rather than saw Oliver flinch. 

“You are injured,” Sarab said.

“No. It’s old,” Felicity said, pointing and flexing the foot until she felt it was ready. Then she stood up, accompanied by masked and armed assassins, and limped towards a fortress carved into the side of a cliff. You couldn’t say these people didn’t appreciate visual drama. She trailed Nyssa, but could still feel Oliver’s attention on her.  _ Draw me after you, let us run! _ Now was not the time, she reminded her brain. 

It was hard to focus. She was tired and dried out from that long in an airplane. All of her damage parts ached, including her head. Her hair was coming undone, frizzing around her face, and her eyeballs felt sticky in her skull. In front of her, the dry air blew Nyssa’s long tresses like a Pantene commercial. It was a minor irritation, but it would have been nice to feel even remotely attractive before joining a harem.  _ Please let it be Oliver’s harem _ .

Ra’s got his first look at her while her eyes were still adjusting to the dim interior of fortress. The sudden transition from frank sunlight to smoking torches only added to her sense of displacement. She wiped her mouth on the back of her bound hands and realized she was being observed, not just by the small army of leather-clad assassins, but by a powerfully built man in a robe. It had a Captain Kirk like peek of bare chest. Ra’s.

“Kneel,” Sarab whispered behind her.

“Um,” she said, “No?”

He gave her a slight shove, but she resisted, bending at the waist and stumbling forward rather than kneeling. Sarab brought her back upright by pulling on the leash, which brought twisted her around without warning. Her rebuilt wrist and ankle screamed at her. Felicity cursed, but refused to fall, a decision she would probably regret later.

“Enough,” Oliver said, sounding detached. “She doesn’t know better. Yet.”

“Who is she?” Ra’s asked, stepping forward to inspect her, an expression like he was trying to identify a species of roadkill.

“She,” Felicity said, “is Dr. Felicity Megan Smoak. And she would like to know what the hell is going on. And also an ibuprofen.”

“Al Sah-him has chosen her.” Nyssa sounded archly amused.

“Still don’t know what that means,” Felicity muttered. “Also, I’ve missed my shift. People are going to be looking for me.”

Nyssa snorted. Even Ra’s looked amused. Fantastic. Hopefully their amusement meant the odds of her imminent demise dropped a little.

“Daughter,” said the Demon’s Head, “prepare her.”

“I?” Now Nyssa was looking at her like roadkill.

“It is my wish.”

“To prepare my usurper’s concubine?”

“Yes,” Ra’s said.

Oliver looked determinedly away.   
  


* * *

 

“Are we safe here?” Felicity whispered. The room was both opulent and primitive, like the kind of European natural bath spa places that she’d only seen in the occasional in flight magazine. But decorated with bladed weapons instead of fresh cut flowers. There were towels, cushioned tables, pools of hot springs, pools of cold water, glass decanters of oils, sea sponges, and a pile of hot rocks.

“We may speak freely,” Nyssa said, untying Felicity’s bonds. “It’s private here. These areas are reserved for the Demon’s copulation.”

“Fantastic. This isn’t like...the spring?”

“No, Felicity, my father does not copulate in the Lazarus Pit.”

“Please stop saying copulate.” Felicity lowered herself slowly, creakily to the floor. Everything hurt and she was dehydrated and dirty and exhausted and possibly a concubine. With no sex appeal. She closed her eyes.

“Are you unwell?” Nyssa asked, somewhere above her.

“No. Yes.”

“You will feel better when you’ve bathed. You will certainly smell better.”

“I resemble that remark.” Groaning, she pushed herself upright and began removing her clothes. “To be fair, I had very little time to make a plan and absolutely no help from my co-conspirator.”

“I can only imagine. No, don’t bother to fold those. They’ll all be burnt soon. My, that is a tattoo.”

“Yeah, I was there. Which pool do I dunk myself in first?”

“That one. It’s shallow, so you won’t accidentally drown yourself.”

“I knew I liked you.”

“You like me?”

“Yeah.” Felicity looked up from the edge of the pool. Nyssa was staring at her in an odd way. “I do like you. You loved Sara. And you killed Isabel.”

“Well.” Nyssa was clearly nonplussed.

“Oh my G-d,” Felicity groaned as she lowered herself into the natural hot springs. “This is amazing. No wonder everyone copulates here.”

“Not everyone, just my father and his concubine of the moment. Perhaps you, someday.”

“I’m laughing on the inside.”

“Don’t forget to wash behind your ears. He’ll certainly be checking for that.”

“Quit trying to ruin this for me.”

“This is not a game, Felicity.”

“I know,” she said, and submerged herself. When she broke the surface again, Nyssa was handing her various cleansers and telling her how to use them. When Felicity was as clean as a single bath could make her, Nyssa handed her an extraordinarily soft towel. In the warmth of the room, the cocoon of the towel, Felicity could feel herself relax just the tiniest bit.

“Dry off, put on the robes, and then I’ll accompany you to your rooms. You should be able to sleep for a few hours.”

“Sleep? But I thought--”

“My father and Al Sah-him will be negotiating for some time, I imagine.”

“Negotiating?”

“To whom you will belong, and under what terms.”

Nyssa brought her to a room and a bed with the softest sheets in human history. Felicity closed her eyes, but she didn’t sleep. She wondered how the League bought sheets like this. Bitcoin? The dark web? No, they didn’t even have electric lights. How did they feed and clothe a huge paramilitary force without so much as a credit card? She had almost nodded off when Nyssa shook her awake again.

“Why,” Felicity muttered.

“I assume that the negotiations have concluded. It’s time for your audience.”

“Five more minutes.”

“I need all those minutes to make you presentable.”

Nyssa al Ghul was a truly natural bombshell, so it was something of a mystery how she had acquired the skills she unleashed on Felicity. It was not a comfortable transformation, but this was not a yoga pants social situation. Nyssa brushed out her hair and, after making a few disapproving noises, left it down to curl around her shoulders. Makeup was simple, since apparently the League’s low-tech philosophy extended to personal grooming. Nyssa applied cake mascara, potted rouge, and a pink lip color. The offered undergarments, also low-tech, were surprisingly comfortable. Then Nyssa brought out the big guns.

“Whoa.”

“It is adequate for the station you aspire to.”

“Nyssa, I think that’s...is that actual gold thread?”

“The trousers may be too long. I did have them hemmed while you were resting. You are not a woman of much stature.”

“It’s actual gold thread. I think this is worth more than my car, and my car is like...newish. And please tell me those are rhinestones.”

“They are opals. You’ll find them on the cuffs and hems as well as the neckline. And don’t put your hands anywhere near your face, unless you want to lose them. Don’t speak. We don’t have time for dithering.”

Felicity stopped speaking. Nyssa helped her into the narrow trousers and split tunic of a salwar kameez. It was a soft green color, decorated with embroidered gold discs and, yes, apparently opals. It was a shockingly comfortable ensemble, even if Felicity was afraid of its opulence. But the shoes were like...Cinderella level shoes. Jutti, Nyssa called them.

“I can’t.” Felicity balked at them. Was there something fancier than silk and gold thread? Because it was on the jutti. They couldn’t actually be gold, right? Because gold was too soft? Glass slippers would have been far less daunting.

“Was I unclear about your dithering?”

Felicity looked at her unmanicured toes and back at the jutti.

“Put them on,” Nyssa said. “Or I’ll put them on for you.”

Felicity put them on.   
  


* * *

 

Through all the unpleasant and/or terrifying things Felicity had been asked to do since beginning her residency, she had maintained and truly believed in one dictum:  _ It can’t be worse than Match Week _ . Match Week was a test of mental fortitude and resilience. It was college admissions on steroids. An aspiring physician would list their desired residencies in order of preference. The residency programs would do the same. At the beginning of the week, the student discovered whether or not they had matched. (If not, a mad, desperate, and undignified scramble called SOAP began.) At the end of the week, the single matched residency program would be revealed to the student, who was then required to begin a years long term of more or less indentured servitude if they ever wanted to practice medicine.

It was a psychological nightmare, which Felicity had only narrowly escaped with her sanity intact. And as she stood outside the massive, reinforced doors of Ra’s’ sanctum sanctorum, wondering if she would end up as a concubine after being examined extensively by the Commander in Chief of an army of hit men, it occurred to her that maybe she’d finally found something worse than Match Week. She looked down at her beautiful, comfortable, decadent clothing. No, it couldn’t be worse than Match Week.

“Enter,” called Ra’s al Ghul. The nearest hit man opened the door for her, with a nod of slight deference.

Felicity proceeded on weak knees. Oliver and Ra’s reclined beside one another on a low divan, looking at her appraisingly, the way she imagined reality show producers looked at potential subjects.  _ America’s Next Top Seraglio? _ She could only bring herself to approach within a few yards. Then her feet simply stopped.

“Your appearance is much improved,” Ra’s said.

“Your daughter was very helpful.”

He laughed, but not pleasantly.

“These clothes,” Oliver said frowning, “are not worthy.”

“Oh, but--” Felicity started.

“A new wardrobe will of course be sewn at once, provided...”

_ Provided what? _

Oliver made an expansive and somewhat pompous come-hither gesture. The priceless jutti moved forward under their own power, taking Felicity with them. She made her way until she was standing beside Oliver. Nothing less powerful than divine intervention could move her closer to the Death’s Head. Oliver lifted his hand and ran it proprietarily along the underside of her forearm. It oozed smarm.

“Al Sah-him tells me you are a physician.”

“I am.”

“And that you have taken a mortal vow to do no harm to any living creature.”

“That’s...yeah, that’s about the size of it.” She tried to swallow with little result.

“Tell me, how do you know Oliver Queen?”

“Uh.” Felicity looked at Oliver and back to Ra’s and back to Oliver and back to Ra’s.

“You may speak freely in front of Al Sah-him.”

“Right. Okay…. I met, um, Oliver Queen once, when he visited my clinic. His clinic, technically. Sorry, are we just pretending that…” Felicity cut her eyes to the Oliver Queen looking fellow sitting right there.

“Oliver Queen lives only in the past,” Ra’s informed her, making the hair on her neck stand up. “We intend to keep it that way.”

“Oh. Got it. We met just the one time.”

“And what kind of man did he strike you as?”

“He seemed…well-intentioned, but not all that well-informed.” The best lies were always very select truths.

“And did he ever come back to that clinic?”

“No. Um, he did send someone over with some supplies. Books, for the kids. There’s research that shows…” Felicity stopped, swallowed, and was struck with a memory so vivid that she spoke it aloud. “No, wait! I met him before.”

“Indeed.”

“He doesn’t know this. Didn’t know this? I don’t know which verb tense I should be using here, for the ninja formerly known as Queen. Anyway, before med school, I worked as a lifeguard and an EMT. I was working in the ambulance that night, when my partner and I got a call for suspected crackacardia. That’s when you do so much blow that your heart tries to explode. It was right on the strip. Two men--I later found out they were Queen and a friend of his. The friend had asked for an eightball, but some enterprising dealer had crushed some 512s into it, to keep things interesting. Queen, of course, was so full of Scooby Snacks that you could have roasted a hot dog over him.”

The assassins were looking at her like she was speaking in PHP. Oliver looked suspiciously blank. Probably not much Hug Drug getting passed around in these catacombs.

“And what did that make you think of him then?” Ra’s asked.

“Well. I found out Queen was the one who called it in, when his friend started stopped breathing. And he didn’t flee the scene. So, I thought he was stupid, but not completely amoral for a rich guy doing party drugs in casinos.”

“That’s all you thought of him?”

“Well, out there, they make you treat the unworthy rich as well as you do the worthy working classes. After that night, I didn’t think about him much at all. Except for the incident at the clinic, the most time I’ve spent with him is when he broke into my trailer, told me to put my shoes on, and whisked me off on the vacation I never wanted.”

“Do you think he ever thought of you, before he entered your...trailer?”

“Me? No. No way,” she said with the kind of ugly personal truth that feels real enough to be universal truth, too. “Unless I’m late for work, I don’t think anyone thinks of me at all.”

“Are you afraid?” Ra’s asked.

“Yep.”

“This shows good sense.” He looked at her more seriously. “Do you believe that a man or a woman may live an entire life, and then set it aside, and live a second one?”

“I was born to be Nevada trailer trash. I think people can be a lot of things.”

“And is this something that you want to be?” Ra’s waved his hand, encompassing the room, the divan, the salwar kameez, and Oliver.

“Well.” She swallowed with more success. “I don’t want to die. And I don’t want to kill anyone. It seems like under the circumstances, Al Sah-him might be my best choice.”

“Then you accept.” This last part was not a question.

“I have some questions,” Felicity hedged. “This seems like a lovely fortress type cave situation. There just a few things I’d like to clarify.”

“Of course. After you see your patient.”

“Sorry, my what?” She checked their faces again. No clues there. “My what?”

There was something worse than Match Week, and this was it. Felicity stared, horrified, at the figure on the cot below her. The patient, a female assassin of middling years and excellent physical condition, was in desperate need of a below the knee amputation of the right leg. Felicity couldn’t see exactly what was beneath the bottom of the sheet, but she could smell it. And nobody ever forgot gangrene.

“Oh no,” Felicity said. “No no no no no. She needs a hospital”

“She has you,” Ra’s al Ghul said.

“What about--” She stopped, choking on her words:  _ What about the magic hot tub? _

“We all serve the League,” Oliver observed blandly.

“You aspire to a high office,” Ra’s added. “But have no history with us. Certain gestures of good faith must be made.”

“I didn’t aspire to be kidnapped by a former playboy and current murderer!” Felicity snapped.

The assassin moaned.

“Shit!” Felicity said. “Do you even have like...a ninja infirmary?”

“You’re looking at it,” Nyssa said caustically from the door of the dark, low-ceilinged room. “Father. Are you playing nice with Al Sah-him’s new toy?”

“Are there supplies?” Felicity asked. Nyssa nodded towards a trunk that could have come from the set of a pirate movie. Felicity lifted the cover. “This isn’t medicine, it’s a tetanus sampler set!”

“To be fair,” Nyssa said, “we never use this room.”

“What, you euthanize anything worse than sutures?” She looked up. There was a miniscule twitch in Oliver’s cheek. “No, don’t answer that. Is anyone going to help me with any of this?”

“Maseo is at your service. And Nyssa, too.”

“Father--”

“This is my wish! You will not gainsay me!” Ra’s roared it, lunging half a step and making Felicity jump. The old reflexes kicked in and she threw her hands up defensively. He turned his scorn in her direction. “She cowers.”

“She does. And she needs a bone saw,” Felicity whispered back, without lowering her arms.

“The leg stays,” he commanded. “If she loses the leg, you lose also.”

“I lose…?” Felicity looked after him as he swept out of the room, Oliver right behind him. Neither looked back. Maseo stood by the door, arms crossed, looking bored. “I lose what?”

“Use your imagination,” Nyssa said.

“This leg is about ten minutes from falling off. And that’s not hyperbole. It’s barely an exaggeration. Look at it.”

“I can smell it. She will expire soon.”

“Nyssa!” Felicity whispered. “We have to buy time before we skip town. Starling needs more time.”

“Your plan was a bad plan.”

“You should have heard the original.” Felicity took a deep breath, and stepped back to look at the male assassin. “I can’t believe I’m about to say this. Sarab, I need whatever tools you think might be useful, the highest proof alcohol you have, whatever you people use for bandages, and boiled water. Lots of it. And whatever you feed people when they’re sick.”

“There is a tea--”

“No! No tea. What is it with you people and the tea!” She rested her forehead on the heel of her hand. No Pedialyte in Nanda Parbat, she would guess. “What do you drink when you’ve been practicing at killing people all day in the hot sun and everyone’s a little light-headed and cranky.”

“Ah, yes, there is--”

“Don’t say tea. Just bring it. If it’s not tea.”

Sarab left. Felicity told Nyssa what she needed.

“Absolutely not,” Nyssa said. “And you have the temerity cast aspersions on our medicines.”

“First of all, I cast aspersions on your beverages, not your medicines, which are non-existent. Second of all, I need someone here with an eye for animal life and a strong constitution. I know somebody around here milks Tibetan pit vipers, and I don’t think it’s tall dark and asshole, out fetching the bandages.”

Nyssa glowered, which was unsettling, but obeyed. A few minutes later, Sarab returned. He presented her with a ewer of hot water, a porcelain basin of kitchen implements that smelled like denatured alcohol, a bottle of moonshine, and a basket of actual real-life rolled bandages. Then he handed her a broad canvas apron.

“I feel like Elizabeth fucking Blackwell,” Felicity muttered, tying it on. “Okay. Let’s get her out of the Assassin’s Creed cosplay, shall we? Then we’re going to clean the leg. If we can. Do you know her name?”

“Al-Riyh.”

It was not pleasant work. The injured woman was conscious just enough to resist their efforts, no matter what Sarab ordered her to do in what language. She looked hollowed out, a runner’s build that was beginning to cave in, her black skin turning ashen. Sarab helped change and give her a brief sponge bath. Then he coaxed her to take small sips of the concoction a servant had brought. It looked and smelled like mint and lemonade. 

“Hansie,” she said plaintively. “Hansie. Waar is jy? Ek kan jou nie sien nie.”

“Who’s Hansie?” Felicity asked.

“Dis ek, Abebi,” Al-Riyh moaned, tears escaping one at a time from the outer corners of her eyes. “Dit is ek, Hansie. Dis Abebi.”

“I don’t know.” Sarab avoided her eyes, gently brushing the tears away with his knuckles. “Shhh, shhh.” He encouraged her to drink more, whispering in her ear.

Felicity turned her attention to the leg. It was disgusting. She’d seen worse, but only on dead people in photographs. She did her best to, at least mentally, put on her white coat. This was just a patient with an untreated leg wound, which just happened to smell worse than decomp. Felicity began to debride what she could. The tissue was obviously dead, and caused Al-Riyh no pain. It was foul. Nyssa’s return came as a relief.

“They’re the right kind?” Felicity asked.

“ _ Protophormia terraenovae _ .” Nyssa held a small covered dish away from herself, refusing to look at it.

“Perfect.” Felicity took the dish, sprinkled some of the moonshine on its contents, and tossed it gently like a salad before reaching for a pair disinfected chopsticks in her semi-sterile basin. “That will have to do.” She turned to Sarab and Nyssa like they were interns. “What we have here is an unhealed traumatic wound ideal for our purposes. It’s open, it’s exuding, and it can’t get any worse.”

“What are you going to do?” Sarab asked.

“Maggot therapy.” And then, with her chopsticks, Felicity began to transfer the baby blue-bottles one at a time into Al-Riyh’s open wound. They wriggled, and began to go to work on the necrotic tissue. “They eat dead flesh, ignore the living, and excrete a wide variety of anti-microbial compounds. Just look at ‘em. You picked some real go-getters, Nyssa.”

Sarab gagged.

“And now I’m going to wrap the calf in cheesecloth, to keep the maggots in and the air flowing. Felicity turned and looked him in the eye. “Nom. Nom. Nom.”

Nyssa snorted, even as she wiped her hands thoroughly on a clean towel. Sarab was a very peculiar shade indeed, breathing carefully through his nose.

“Okay,” Felicity said. “We have to make her comfortable. Do we have some cushions or something? Elevate the leg a little. Keep hydrating her. I’m going to keep an eye on the maggots. Also, coffee.”

It was twelve hours later when she woke up en route. There was a more-familiar almost-Oliver smell and the feeling of his arms underneath her. 

“Shh,” Oliver said. “We’re almost there.”

“Where?” She closed her eyes.

“Our room.”

“But--”

“The leg is still attached. Al-Riyh lives. Nyssa is with her.”

“Don’t let her kill the maggots,” Felicity murmured.

“I think she’s starting to like them.”

He set her on her feet once they were back in what must be his room. She didn’t recognize it. It was Spartan, but not uncomfortable. He helped her out of her salwar kameez, obeying her instructions to be very, very careful with it. The bed was outstanding.

“When do we...I mean...is it…”

“Go to sleep, Felicity. We have time.”

“Oh thank G-d.” She climbed in, ignoring the nightshirt he held out, and burrowed into the far side of the bed. The world’s softest sheets embraced her.

Curling up into the tiniest ball, she took and released an enormous, tense breath. All at once, she was so tired she might cry. She felt Oliver’s weight on the mattress behind her, heard him sliding in between the sheets, and nestling up behind her. With one hand, he scooped her closer. Her back, exposed, felt the wiry hair on his chest and even some of his scars. He was warm, safe.

“Scooby Snacks?” he asked.

“It was either that or Disco Biscuits.”

“I didn't know you saved Tommy’s life.” He kissed the top of her head. 

“You saved it when you called 9-1-1 for him. You were rolling, but you did tell me I was glossy.”

“You are. And you were marvelous today,” Oliver whispered into her ear. “I’m so proud. I love you.”

“I love you, too. Wake me when it’s time to blow shit up.” And then she fell promptly, deeply asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maggot therapy is real and it works! You're welcome.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which ceremonies are performed and prices are paid.

_ Marriage is a fine institution, but I’m not ready for an institution _ .

-Mae West

 

**Nanda Parbat, 2015**

Felicity woke to the smell of coffee and the sound of murmured conversation by the door.

“Later.” That was Oliver.

“Now.” That was Nyssa.

“Coffee,” Felicity said. She tortuosly pushed and pulled herself upright, trying to hang onto the sheet when she remembered she’d been too tired to put on a borrowed nightgown. It was not a dignified process. When she was more or less seated and more or less covered, she reached out with grabby hands. “Coffee. Glasses. Coffee.”

Oliver provided the glasses and Nyssa set down an elaborately carved tray with a silver coffee service that definitely belonged in a museum. Nyssa, always a quick learner, poured Felicity’s coffee into a solid earthenware mug and handed it to her. It was damn good and she could feel the life returning to her, one caffeine molecule at a time.

“The patient?” she asked.

“Will live,” Nyssa said. “And keep her leg. My father was very impressed.”

“The maggots did all the work.”

A special look of disgusted alarm crossed Oliver’s face. Felicity filed it away to treasure it forever.

“He was so impressed,” Nyssa added, “that he has decided to move forward your marriage. To today.”

Felicity clutched the mug to keep from dropping it.

“He has also waived the usual League rituals for your somewhat unorthodox membership. No murder. All that will be required is the branding.”

“The branding?” Felicity’s eyebrows went up to her hairline and she remembered the half-healed burns on Oliver’s back.

“Out,” he growled. “Now.”

“No, wait, it’s okay. I need to know.” She patted the bed next to her and Oliver, heavy in his League armor, sat at her feet. She propped the soles of her feet against his hip, trying to ground herself. “What exactly is going to happen?”

“In a few hours, I will return to prepare you. You will be married by the priestess that presided over Thea’s introduction to the Lazarus Pit.”

“A shonda fur die goyim,” Felicity muttered under her breath.

“After that, you’ll join the league by taking the brand of Al Sah-him.”

“I don’t even get my own brand?” she asked numbly.

“You’re not getting a brand at all.” Oliver sounded pretty pissed. “Nyssa, out.”

“This has to happen.” Nyssa stood her ground. “You know it.”

“I said get out!”

“I’ll be back shortly to discuss your wardrobe. Show a little backbone, Al Sah-him.” With that parting shot, Nyssa left, closing the door softly behind her.

“After the initial pain, it won’t feel so bad,” Felicity said, distracted. She was wondering where they would put the brand. Not on her back, she hoped, but they might insist.

“Felicity.”

“The main concern is going to be infection. I’d feel a lot better if these people believed in penicillin.” They would need a reasonably flat area for strike branding. Oliver’s had looked like strike branding.

“Felicity, no. I’m not going to let them do this.”

“But if all goes according to plan, we should be home before there are any really serious complications.”

“Felicity!” he grabbed her hand, finally catching her attention. “This is not going to happen.”

“Oh.” She looked down at his grip on her and squeezed back. “It’s okay.” Looking up, she could see he was a little...confused. Not as bad as he had been, of course. Her psych rotation had not covered what to do when one’s fake fiance was experiencing dissociative symptoms because he was trying to be three people at the same time, including at least two masked men with different code names. She could only try and help tether him, the real him, to the forefront.

“It’s not happening,” he insisted.

“Do you remember our safe word?” she asked.

“Yes.” It took him a beat. “Marshmallow.”

“I’ll use it. I’ll tell you if it’s too much.” That was a lie so good that she almost believed it herself. If she tapped out, Oliver would go apeshit, they’d both probably die, and Starling would definitely be screwed. No way was she using the word. “I’ll use the word, I promise.”

“It doesn’t matter--you won’t need it.”

“Oliver,” she said, putting a hand on his chest. “I’m not that upset about the brand.”

“You can get it removed, right?”

“Of course.” That was a lie so obvious she couldn’t even pretend to believe it. Well, he could be mad about it later.

“But you are upset.”

“Oliver, it’s so...petty. In the grand scheme.”

“Will you tell me anyway?”

She sighed. “This is going to sound so...poor-pitiful-me. And I know that, which is why I am only sharing this because you asked nicely.”

“Thank you.”

“I didn’t have a high school graduation. I graduated early, you know, and they didn’t want to give me the valedictorian plaque, because I wasn’t technically a senior, but Fetter made sure I got the real one and the one they gave to Andrew Harris was a copy. It’s not the same, though. And then when I graduated college, also early, there was nobody there and I finally had to confess to all my friends that I was an orphan and I stayed home and cried instead of going out to any of the after parties. Med school, same story, except I did go out to the bars and drank too much and totally puked in the bushes outside my apartment building. And now, I finally have Fetter back, and I have Diggle and Lyla and you, and we’re going to get fake married and nobody but a bunch of masked bad guys is going to see, even though we’re obviously b’shert.”

“We’re what?”

“Nevermind.” She looked down, willing the words back into her mouth. This was exactly why she didn’t talk about these things. Sometimes you tripped up and told the truth. “It doesn’t matter. I told you it was poor-pitiful-me.”

Without speaking, he scooted back across the bed so they were sitting side by side, backs against the massive and ornate headboard. He put an arm around her and held her tight. It wasn’t a gentle embrace. It was the way you held someone’s hand in a crowd, when you were afraid of losing them in the crush. It was more than reassurance, it was a lifeline.

“I promise,” Oliver said, “that you can invite Fetter, and the hospital, and the whole Glades to our next wedding.”

There was a knock at the door. Nyssa.

_ Wait...what did he say? _

Oliver dropped a kiss on her forehead and then left her to Nyssa’s tender mercies.

“Did you hear that?” Felicity asked her.

“The sound of your beloved beating feet?” Nyssa was dragging a covered wardrobe rack.

“No, before.”

“Felicity, these doors are made of oak trees felled from Mt. Ararat when the floodwaters receded. No, I did not hear.”

“Oh. Who taught you about ‘beating feet?’”

“My beloved did.” With that, Nyssa pulled the cover off the rack and exposed Felicity to the most insane selection of formal wear she had ever seen.

“I see the fashion police don’t make it out to Nanda Parbat often.” Felicity eyed a garment that looked suspiciously like Halle Berry’s Oscar winning dress, if all the floral applique had been removed. There was another that looked like it might the real Princess Di revenge dress. There were sequins upon sequins and a heaping helping of tulle. “Is this..it?”

“I can go get the traditional bridal sari, if you would prefer.”

“Nope, no, absolutely not.” Felicity wasn’t sure if a Nanda Parbat wedding sari counted as cultural appropriation, but she wasn’t taking any chances. Nobody wanted to die or possibly be wed while showing their own ass.  “This will work. Oh--what the hell?” This one looked like the world’s most famous cream puff mutton sleeved wedding gown. “I can’t believe I’m about to ask this. But did you kill Princess Diana?”

“Not me personally, no.”

“Holy shit.”

“You understand that if you reveal any of our secrets, we will have you killed.”

“Totally. Look, these are all...fine. But I’m short, and they’re the kind of dresses that will wear me, instead of the other way around. You know?”

“I do not.”

Felicity exhaled. “Let me put it this way. Is this a crowd that’s going to find scars and tattoos impressive?”

“Without question.”

“Okay, let's try this again."

 

* * *

 

“Maybe this was a mistake,” Felicity whispered at the door of the chamber.

“Proceed,” Nyssa ordered.

“I feel pretty naked.”

“Felicity.” 

“I--” There was the unmistakable feeling of a knife point gently against her bare back. “Seriously?”

“Missishness will not serve you or Al Sah-him now.”

“Right.” Felicity turned to look at Nyssa, who still held the knife at the ready. “Listen, I have a favor to ask, since you’re the maid of honor and all.”

Nyssa inclined her head graciously.

“When it’s time, will you do the branding?”

“I?” The daughter of the demon looked taken aback.

“Yeah. I want it to be you.” Felicity licked her lips. “I know you won’t hurt me more than you need to.”

“I am gratified to be your maid of honor,” she said gravely. “I will do what is necessary.”

“Okay,” Felicity said. “Let’s get married.”

_ For now the winter is past, the rains are over and gone.  _

Nyssa opened the door of the chamber and all heads turned in their direction. Yep. Felicity felt pretty naked. Hidden in the garment rack of horrors had been a lovely little slip dress. It was white, silk, and backless. Only the designer tag (Calvin Klein) indicated that it was not an actual undergarment. Nyssa had helped pin her hair back, which meant almost all of Felicity’s inked back was visible. The scars from the undertaking and every incident since were on full display. She was barefoot and her toenail polish matched her blood red lips.

All eyes turned towards her. Ra’s al Ghul looked amused. The officiant, some gorgeous smoky-eyed lady probably ordained online, did not look impressed. The assassins looked...assassiny, lined up silently on either side of a silk carpet that could have paid off her school loans. Oliver looked almost alarmed, but still handsome in his tunic. Suddenly, all the assassins raised their swords, creating a kind of passage towards the altar. Not exactly a chuppah. Behind the priestess was a brazier and in the brazier was a brand.

_ The blossoms have appeared in the land, the time of pruning is come; The song of the turtledove is heard in our land _ .

Felicity proceeded on bare feet towards them. The idea had been to show every marred inch of her skin, to prove to them that she wasn’t some soft civilian. But she was more than a little worried that it had backfired. It was starting to feel like those dreams where you had to take a test and as soon as you sat down at the desk, you realized you’d been enrolled in a class you hadn’t attended all year and now it was the final. She stopped beside Oliver, who took her shaking hand in his and they both turned to face the priestess.

“There is no vow more sacred, nor covenant more holy than the one between man and woman.”

_ The green figs form on the fig tree. The vines in blossom give off fragrance. _

“With this ceremony, your souls are bound together, forever joined. You will never be free. You will always be held captive by your love for each other.”

_ Arise, my darling. My fair one, come away! _

“And for this shared life, we offer blessings.” The priestess inclined her head and held out her hands for theirs. Oliver released Felicity’s hand, only to have the priestess rejoin them in her firm, cool grip.

“Now,” Ra’s al Ghul said, stepping forward and circling the pair. “Every man and woman here have renounced their past lives and forfeited their identities in the name of something new. And it is a cleansing only achieved by fire.”

The assassins moved aside as one to reveal a structure that she had overlooked when she entered. It was a small frame, like a sukkah, but clearly with a different purpose. There were two strips of fabric, on opposite sides.  _ Catch us the foxes, the little foxes that ruin the vineyards. _

“This way,” Nyssa said.

In her little white dress, Felicity felt less like a bride and more like a not-so-virgin sacrifice. But she followed Nyssa anyway.   _ I opened the door for my beloved. But my beloved had turned and gone. _ The maid of honor took Felicity’s right fist and secured it firmly in the strip of fabric, which was silk, actually. It wasn’t uncomfortable. But it was very...secured. Panic started to climb up her throat.  _ I was faint because of what he said _ .

“Silence.” Nyssa shushed her gently. as she fastened her left arm. 

“Sorry. I didn’t mean that to be an out loud thought.” Most assassins were clearly taller people. Felicity found herself stretched into a Y shape, able only to turn her head.  _ I sought, but found him not. I called but he did not answer. _

Do not cry out. And be very still,” Nyssa murmured and stepped back, out of view, in the direction of the brazier.

In front of Felicity stood Ra’s al Ghul, flanked by Sarab and Oliver on either side. She tried to breathe. Ra’s looked smug. Felicity tried really hard to stay quiet. Behind her, she heard something heavy scraping and moving. The brand in the coals. She felt her whole body break out in a cold fear sweat.  _ My beloved has gone down to his garden. _ She looked directly at Oliver, or Al Sah-him, or whatever. He was mouthing something at her and it took her a moment to realize it was ‘marshmallow.’ Felicity shook her head very slightly.  _ To the beds of spices, to browse in the gardens and to pick lilies. _

The brand, when it came, hurt only for a moment. But it was a very, very long moment before the nerves below were too fried to relay the pain back to her central nervous system. Felicity didn’t scream. But she did gasp and make a little noise of surprise. Nyssa had placed it just at the base of her neck, just where her superior and transverse trapezius fibers met, safely clear of her tattoo. Her body, in spite of the nerve damage, knew something bad was happening. Then the smell came, blackened skin with a touch of burnt hair. Black spots trailed across her vision and she blinked, trying to keep her gaze on Oliver. Then Nyssa pulled the brand away.  _ He browses among the lilies. _ Felicity gulped air and felt herself sag a little in the restraints, using them to help keep her legs under her. Breathing through her mouth, she met Oliver’s eyes. He looked terrified.  _ I am my beloved’s. And his desire is for me. _

“The union is sealed,” intoned the priestess, stepping into Felicity’s narrow field of vision. She nodded with begrudging approval.

Nyssa returned, her face expressionless, to help unfasten the bonds. Once the first was off, she felt herself listing forward. Shock or endorphins or both were playing havoc with her. She put up a hand to catch her fall and was surprised when it landed on some kind of upholstered furniture. No, nope, that was Oliver’s chest. He picked her up from the waist, allowing her to wrap her legs around him, and lay her forehead against his collarbone. The brand itself might be nerveless, but everything around it was beginning to scream in protest.

“I did it,” she whispered.

“I know.”

Their rooms weren’t far from the ceremonial chamber. It was an awkward way to carry her, but since they didn’t have far to go, and her knees weren’t going to hold her, it was beside the point. A servant opened the door for them, and closed it behind them. Oliver lowered her carefully to the bed, steadying her shoulders with his hands.

“I thought I was going to pass out,” she said, leaning forward and putting her head between her knees.

“I almost did,” Oliver said, sitting down heavily beside her. He handed her a small blue bottle.

“Take some deep breaths,” she advised, unscrewing the lid of the bottle.. “In through the nose, out through the mouth. No, slower. It’s okay.”

Oliver only covered his eyes with a hand.

“If it makes you feel any better, I think this is legit laudanum.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Well, it’s going to make me feel better.” Felicity took a very small sip and  then set it aside. It tasted like brandy and sugared cloves, but the bitter undercurrent of opium was there. “Oliver, look at me.”

He did, looking as guilty as she’d ever seen him, and he was a master of guilt.

“We did it,” she said. “Tomorrow, we go back to Starling. You’re going to kill Ra’s al Ghul. We’re almost there.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.” Felicity reached out her hand to cover his. She could just discern a fine tremble there. Oliver Queen was at the very end of his tether. “Come on, let’s lay down.” 

Very carefully, she pulled back the covers lowered herself onto her side on one of the silken pillows. If she held very still, she might be okay. She was already starting to feel a little floaty, courtesy of the laudanum. Oliver, bless him, stripped off his dress clothes and kicked them into a corner with unexpected pique. Then, gloriously nude, he climbed in across from her.

“I wish I didn’t feel so fragile,” Felicity said, grinning at him. “When I can use my shoulders again, you’re going to be in so much trouble.”

“Oh yeah?” He tried on a smile.

“In the words of a wise woman, I am gonna climb that like a tree.” She giggled. “Are you blushing?”

“No.”

“You totally are. John has been making me do all these horrible functional fitness exercises. I’m just gonna clamber on up.”

Oliver snorted.

“Hey.” She reached out in the space between them and he reached back so they could touch hands. Felicity sighed with relief, the opium going to work. “We’re almost there.”

“We’re almost there,” he repeated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chag sameach!


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felicity was not thrilled to be separated from Oliver. She was not thrilled to be dressed as an assassin. She was definitely, certainly, absolutely not thrilled to be flying back to Starling on a plane full of Typhoid Mary hemorrhagic plague carrying human petri dishes in American civilian clothes. She sat next to Nyssa, also in disguise, at the back of the plane. From time to time, Nyssa squeezed her hand. Felicity, whose glasses were safe under her armor, passed the time in actual blind terror.

_ You are not nameless to me. Do not remain nameless to yourself--it is too sad a way to be. _

-Richard Feynman

  
  


**40,000 ft. Above Sea Level, 2015**

Felicity was not thrilled to be separated from Oliver. She was not thrilled to be dressed as an assassin. She was definitely, certainly, absolutely not thrilled to be flying back to Starling on a plane full of Typhoid Mary hemorrhagic plague carrying human petri dishes in American civilian clothes. She sat next to Nyssa, also in disguise, at the back of the plane. From time to time, Nyssa squeezed her hand. Felicity, whose glasses were stored safely under her armor, passed the time in actual blind terror.

From time to time, a flask was passed around, and occasionally some hard bread. The plague monkeys did not partake, so Felicity felt safe enough when she saw that Nyssa was eating and drinking a little. The brand on the back of her neck was hot and sore and if she ended up with sepsis, she was going to be pissed. She tried to focus on her annoyance and the pain. It helped distract from her fear. 

Oliver was in the other plane, the advance plane. That night in her trailer, which felt like a million years ago, he’d confessed that he’d intended to turn it into a kamikazee. He had seemed, you know, saner since then. But she worried. She wanted eyes on him. She wanted this to be over.

  
  


**Starling, 24 Hours Later**

By the time she and Nyssa landed, deplaned, slipped away, and met up with Oliver, Sarab was already dead. He was on the ground, a petite woman in red and white stood over him. The ground around them was littered with dead assassins. Oliver was there, looking bleak, and Laurel--the Black Canary--panting for breath with the sudden crash of adrenaline. Nyssa and Felicity’s arrival was clearly the anticlimax.

“He thanked me,” said the tiny, lethal woman with the sword.

Felicity, who had seen stranger things from dying people, could only nod. In her experience, people who were dying were either already unconscious or they were talking about missed appointments and places they had to go and unpacked suitcases. It was a death process that she had no interest in whatsoever. Dying, like being born, was work. Like birth, there was a biological process involved and a sort of psychic passage. The patients talked to people who weren’t there, described places they had never been It was creepy and only palliative care people could handle it day in day out.

It made her Felicity’s crawl, and it made her a little ashamed that she worked so hard to avoid it. That was the great thing about emergency medicine: patients either died quickly, or they died on someone else’s floor. 

“We should go,” Laurel said, looking at Nyssa and Felicity. “John’s back at Palmer tech.”

“Oh boy,” Felicity said.

Oliver looked at her strangely, bless his heart. She considered explaining for a moment why John was going to be royally pissed, but decided against it. Inside Starling city limits, Oliver looked much less discomposed than he had. There was a plan and he was home. They left the scene of slaughter as it was. Ra’s would know soon enough, if he didn’t already, that he’d been betrayed. But when they arrived at the PalmerTech building, Oliver realized they were one short.

“Tatsu?”

“She’s gone,” Nyssa said. “She slipped away. I thought it best to let her go.”

He didn’t reply, except to nod.

“How do we ascend?” Nyssa asked, looking up the slick sides of the glass building.

“We could take the elevator,” Felicity said drily. “It goes all the way up.” All of the security footage could be scrubbed and there was no way she was letting them tow her up the side of the building. Laurel coughed unconvincingly to cover a laugh. Nyssa and Oliver replaced their masks, but Felicity had ditched hers as soon as they were off the tarmac.  Just as well, she thought, as they proceeded through the PalmerTech lobby. Felicity waved cheerily at the guard.

“Costume contest!” she chirped, freezing the smile on her face until the reflective doors of the elevator closed behind all of them. She leaned forward to punch in the code for Ray’s private floor.

“Felicity,” Laurel gasped. “Your neck.”

“It’s nothing,” she said quickly.

“Is that a burn? Of an _arrow_?”

“I said it’s nothing.”

“Ollie,” Laurel said sharply, ignoring her. “What the hell.”

“It was my choice.” Felicity turned to face Laurel, taking her hand. “My life, my choice. I chose all of it.”

Laurel nodded, but still shot Oliver a menacing look. He stared resolutely at the seam of the elevator doors, not quite keeping the hangdog expression from his face. Nyssa looked supremely amused by all of them. Felicity wondered, not for the first time, what the other woman made of their messy, chaotic lives. The elevator doors opened onto the executive floor and John looked up, his face thunderous.

“You son of a bitch,” he said, and strode up directly to Oliver, landing a massive blow to his face. Oliver took it on the chin, falling to his knees. Nyssa looked delighted at this turn of events.

“John!” Felicity objected, crouching next to Oliver. All they needed was a concussion to make this night really interesting.

“And what happened to her neck?” Diggle roared.

“Oh jeez,” Ray said, appearing behind John. “You really clocked him. Is that a burn?”

“Can we have the room?” Felicity asked. “Please?”

Nyssa cast one longing, nosy look over her shoulder before retreating with the others. It was nice to know that she was invested.

“What the hell happened?” John demanded.

“Well,” Felicity said, when she saw Oliver’s head was still clearing. “We got assassin-married.”

“Do you think that’s funny?” Diggle turned his glare on her.

“Not really, no. That’s what the brand was about.”

“What were you thinking?” he asked. “You left town without so much as a note. I only had Laurel’s word, via your street urchin, that you weren’t actually kidnapped. Or worse.”

“It was her idea go come with me,” Oliver said, running his tongue over his teeth to check them. “When I got to her, I was a little confused still. And we can fix the brand later.”

“Confused?” John asked, not looking away from Felicity. “Fix the brand?” He raised an eyebrow that told her he knew well and good there was no dermatological magic eraser for it

“I think the brainwashing was starting to work,” she said. “And his original plan was not good.”

“Yeah. Malcolm told us all about his original plan.” John scoffed.

“Then I’m sure he told you,” Oliver rose to his feet, “that we don’t have a lot of time.”

 

* * *

 

“Do you think this can work?” Palmer asked, not looking up from his microscope.

“Well.” She expelled a puff of air. “The tech seems sound. The medicine seems sound. So I put it at about 50/50.”

“Yeah, me too.” But he was smiling, looking at his little nano-bots go.

“You totally think it’s gonna work,” Felicity accused. She crossed her arms and leaned back on her stool, glad to be back in her own clothes. Well, she hadn’t actually bought them but Palmer had produced them from somewhere, including underthings. They fit perfectly, so she wasn’t asking questions.

“Yep.” He chuckle-guffawed, this uniquely dumb Palmer noise. It was endearing, tonight, for some reason.

“Hey, can you do me a favor?”

“I’m kind of pressed for time,” he said, gently understating the case.

“It won’t take long.”

“Sure.” He dragged himself reluctantly away from the lab table. “What’s up?”

“I need you to put a new dressing on my neck.”

Palmer blanched.

“Don’t worry.” She rolled her eyes. “You won’t have to touch it. Much. Besides, we need to do it before they get back from chasing their red herring, or…”

“Or Oliver might see you in pain and lose his mind?”

“He is wound a little tight.” Felicity said this breezily, but if even Palmer had noticed, it was worse than she thought.

“So you think Darhk is a red herring?” he asked, while he carefully taped down a new dressing.

“Maybe, maybe not.” She looked carefully at the floor, wincing where he couldn’t see. “But I think Ra’s is going to outflank us on that front.”

“All done.” Palmer stepped away and back to his microscope. “You’ve been studying your military history.”

“I defy anyone to spend more than a day with Nyssa and not come out talking like a West Pointer. Which reminds me. Do you have any good GPS trackers handy? I’m looking something powerful and accurate, within feet. At least twelve hours of battery?”

“Please. Is Moore’s law unsustainable over the long term?”

“I hope...yes?”

 

* * *

 

The herring, as she had suspected, was red. Darhk was not dead. He was not even in the city. Oliver was looking more like himself, but the most defeated, guiltiest version of himself. Just like old times.

“John rescued this for you from the lair,” Felicity said. She was carrying two mugs. One was coffee. “I brought you your disgusting crabgrass tea.”

“It’s not crabgrass,” Oliver said, lifting his head.

“Sorry, I brought you your disgusting ditch weed tea.” 

That earned her half a smile. He accepted the tea. They sat in silence for a moment, a very prized moment.

“I dream about leaving,” he confessed. “I dream about the night I left for Nanda Parbat. I remember the look on your face.”

“I couldn’t talk.” She swallowed automatically, trying to shake the sense-memory of the muteness.

“I know. But you held on really tight. And in the dream, I stay. And sometimes I die anyway. But most the time, we escape. And we’re just driving. And all this seems...it seems so far away, because it’s just the two of us.” He stopped. 

“I have a car now,” she said. “I have a house on wheels.”

“I can’t defeat Ra’s al Ghul.”

“No,” she said firmly. “That’s not true. You’ve just found two ways that don’t work.”

“Felicity.”

“Back in Nanda Parbat. Did you hear me talking? During the…” She gestured vaguely to the back of her neck.

“Yeah, I just thought.” He stopped, flushed. “I thought maybe you were praying.”

“Sort of. Not exactly. I was trying to distract myself. And it was Hebrew. But it was, um.” Her turn to blush. “It was the Song of Songs.”

Oliver looked at her blankly. The moment stretched out. “Felicity, we went to church on Easter and Christmas Eve. If neither of those days covered it, I have no clue.”

“Okay,” she heaved a sigh. “It’s a love poem. All kinds of clergy will tell you that it’s about the love between their deity and the people. But it’s a little, uh, earthy for that. And it’s included in a lot of Jewish wedding ceremonies.”

“Earthy?”

“I delight to sit in his shade,” she recited, cheeks burning even hotter, “and his fruit is sweet to my mouth. He brought me to the banquet room, and his banner of love was over me.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. But it’s also very.” She stood, clasped her hands in front of her, fingers interlaced, and sort of shook them in his direction. “I don’t know how to say what I’m saying.”

He just rose and waited, the son of a bitch. Conversational vacuums had always been her kryptonite.

“You’re not the same as when I met you. I’m not the same as when I met you. None of this is the same.” She took a step forward and placed right hand over his League tunic, over his heart. Her left hand slipped the PalmerTech tracker into his pocket. “None of this is the same.”

“I know,” he said softly.

“Let me be a seal upon your heart, like the seal upon your hand. For love is fierce as death.”

“I know,” he said again, and kissed her on her forehead. “I know that.”

 

* * *

 

“Oliver’s on the move,” Felicity said, frowning at her phone. “He’s leaving the city center. And all the drop spots.”

“Uh-huh.” Palmer said absently.

“Where is he going? The only thing out there is...oh fuck my life.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You want to be a hero, Palmer? This is your chance. I gotta go.”

“Felicity!” He looked around, startled, at the otherwise empty lab. “I can’t do this. You’re a doctor!”

“I’ll be on comms,” she said, tucking the earpiece in. “Anyway, I’m not an epidemiologist. It’s just math now, Ray. Put on your big boy pants. You got this.”

She did not wait for any further objections. Palmer would just have to power through. Honestly, all evidence to the contrary, he wasn’t a moron. He could handle it. At least that’s what she told herself as she jogged through the PalmerTech garage, noting absently where she’d loaded a bleeding Oliver into her dear departed Honda. Back when it had been the QC garage. This time, her car was parked, gassed, and waiting for her, bless Jerry’s servile little heart. She climbed into the SUV, reflecting that it probably needed a name.

The streets of Starling were weirdly empty. People must have actually listened to the shelter in place order, thanks to the lingering trauma of last year’s Mirakuru takeover. What a strange thing to be grateful for. In her ear, she could hear Palmer typing frantically and the rest of the team yelling at one another. They could have their own backs. Felicity would have Oliver’s. As she suspected, the cops were set up on the higher ground, above the crest and roadway. Her SUV blew right through the chained NO ACCESS gate towards the toe and outflow.

She skidded to a stop in a gravel parking lot, littered with more NO TRESPASSING and DANGER and TRAINED STAFF ONLY signs. But this was not a night for obedience. The roar of the water was almost tangible as she opened the door. It was a good thing Diggle had been working on her upper body strength, because there was one good fence to scale. Of course she had left the wire cutters behind. Beyond the fence, a small pier and boat. She landed on the other side, and not gracefully. In truth, Felicity went ass over teakettle into the scraggly brush. She was still picking leaves out of her hair when her phone rang again. She pulled it out of her back pocket, pleased to see the screen was intact.

“Hot mess, party of one,” she said, straightening her glasses. “I can’t hear you--speak up.”

“We got a problem,” Quentin yelled.

“Yep.” She tilted her head back and looked up at the figures high above on the dam, illuminated by police spotlights and shrouded in mist from the water.

“I’m pretty sure your boy is at the Starling City Dam, and I got officers not listening to me getting ready to shoot him.”

“Cops,” Felicity sighed with disgust. “I’ll get back to you.” She hung up and put her finger to her earpiece. “Palmer?”

“Busy. Coding.”

“Code later! Suit now! I need you at the dam.”

“I’m still uploading to the nanotech and I’m still rewriting on the fly. I can’t leave.” Stolid. Friendly. Practical.

“Oliver’s here and the cops are going to open fire. I need your help!”

“If I can’t make this work, Felicity. Thousands of people are going to die. At the inside.”

“Palmer. Ray!”

“It’s one life against the city’s. What would Oliver do?”

“Who gives a flying porcupine fart?” she half-shrieked in total exasperation. “He doesn’t get a vote! You don’t get a vote!”

“Then who gets to vote?” Ray asked, the sound of keys tapping in the background. She knew it was an idle question and that he wasn’t really paying attention to her. He was coding with all the important parts of his brain.

“Me,” she muttered and pulled her comm from her ear and addressed it directly. “Tonight, I vote. I should have taken your damn super suit when I had the chance.” Beyond frustrated, Felicity reached back and threw the earpiece into the basin. She had no idea if it made it or not. Turning back to her phone, she turned up the volume on speaker as loud as she could and dialed Lance back.

“Do you think you could meet me at the bottom?”

“At the bottom of what?”

“The reservoir?”

“The--are you here? What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“I used to be a lifeguard,” she said.

“At where? Niagara Falls?”

“Just come down here. Or I’ll have to do this alone.”

“Of all the hare-brained bull--”

She hung up. It wasn’t long before she caught sight of him tripping through the brush. Behind him, the fence had been opened neatly. He raised both hands at his sides in a gesture of  _ what gives _ . He had to walk closer in order to be heard.

“Why didn’t you cut the wire?” he asked, over the roar.

“I forgot.” She shrugged. “Do you know how to hotwire a boat?”

“What?” He wiggled one index finger in his ear.

“I can’t swim all the way out and back, not if I’m carrying him.”

“Carrying him?” He wiggled the finger in the other ear.

“Reach, throw, row, go.”  _ For love is as fierce as death. _

“What?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” She grabbed him by the elbow and forcibly steered him toward the water and Starling Electric’s Zodiac RIB. Felicity pointed towards the console and wheel. “Make. It. Go.”

Quentin scowled. But, as she had suspected, he did know how to hotwire an engine. How and where he’d learned was a little piece of information she’d ferret out of him later. Meanwhile, she watched the scene unfolding on the dam with the boat’s binoculars. She gasped, bracing herself for the fall of Ra’s sword. The Zodiac’s diesel came to life for Quentin.

“Let’s go!” he yelled. “Hey! What happened to your neck?”

She climbed into the boat, clinging to a handhold on the console as they pulled away, towards the toe of the dam. Careful in the choppy water, she pulled out her phone and watched the tracker. How far did the toe extend beyond the crest? She should have gotten diagrams. She should have gotten the damn super suit. In a moment, illuminated by the police spotlights, Felicity and Lance watched Ra’s drop his sword like a hammer, only for Oliver to catch it in his hand. And then he drove the sword home, into and through its master.

“Shit,” Quentin said.

“Bye, Felicia,” Felicity said smugly. The smile passed, though, with the retort of the police rifles. Just before the sound reached them, they saw the bullets catch Oliver center mass. He staggered and fell. And fell. And fell.  _ Vast floods cannot quench love, nor rivers drown it.  _ “Oh no.”

“Shit!”

“Go!” she pointed at the place where Oliver’s body met the water, in the heavy spray of the spillway. She pushed her phone at him, pointing the blinking dot. Quentin pushed the throttle forward. As they got closer to the point where the foam turned back to water, and the boat slowed, she began to strip. She shivered in the mist and with the anticipation. As they approached PalmerTech's best approximation of Oliver’s location, she held up her hand.

“Are you sure about this?” Quentin said. She didn’t know whether he was more horrified at her plan, or at seeing her in her skivvies. He looked away pointedly as she bent over, rummaging under the boats single row of seats to find a rescue buoy on a long line, as well as several PFDs.

“I used to be a lifeguard!” With that, she put one foot on the edge of the pontoon, then another foot. “Reach, throw, row, go,” she recited. There was a moment of balance, and then she jumped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do your fic writer a favor and flag her typos. I've been staring too long to see them anymore.


	25. Chapter 25

_ No one writes songs about the ones that come easy _ .

- _ Veronica Mars _

 

**Starling City Spillway, 2015**

The water was really, really cold. There was probably some more poetic way to put it, but all that Felicity’s lizard brain cared about was that it was really, really cold. The more evolved parts of Felicity’s brain were pushing ahead, to the tune of  _ Oliver Oliver Oliver _ . Visibility was shit, due to the turbidity. When she surfaced, Lance was helpfully aiming the RIB’s searchlight towards wherever the tracker thought their man was now. It wasn’t terribly subtle, but they could worry about that later.

It felt like it was taking an awful long time. Her breath burned in and out, and her legs felt heavier.  _ It’s just the lactic acid _ , she reminded herself. 

“Smoak!”

She whipped her head back towards the boat. Lance was gesturing down, almost vertically beneath him. Something in the water column winked. Felicity needed no more encouragement. She dove, kicking with the big muscles of her legs, feeling the water pressure slowly squeeze her lungs and sinuses. With her left hand, she equalized the pressure, and her right reached out, out, out.

It wasn’t enough. She wasn’t going to make it. The little piece of light was gone. Kick, kick, kick. Felicity was going to have to resurface, and soon, or she might end up at the bottom of the reservoir, too. She reached out, out, out. And there was nothing. And then, a brush with stiff leather. One more scissor kick and she had the hauberk in her right hand. 

Oliver was unresponsive, but that was of course good news. Panicking people were a lot harder to tow. Shortly after she began to ascend, she ran out of air, the last little bit squeezed from her lungs. It was only a matter of time now before she inhaled. Willpower would only take her so far. Blackness was beginning to encroach on the edges of her vision. She was almost to the surface, but the water was losing its color, not gaining.

_ If I pass out _ , she thought,  _ we’re both going to die. So I can’t pass out. _

In the last few years, she’d experienced quite a few moments that she’d considered unendurable. Some of them as recently as last week. But the final seconds, lungs desperate to inflate, vision fading, the urge to fucking breathe already, was actually just that. Felicity inhaled six inches from the surface and began to choke. She did not let go of Oliver.  _ No passing out _ , she thought.

Someone’s fingers dug into her hair, grabbing her ponytail and pulling her up. That was going to take a chunk of hair, she was pretty sure. Now at least she was choking on air as well as water. Left hand on a fender belonging to the Zodiac. Lance’s hand on her hand.

“Wait,” she managed to say. “Him.” With what felt like relative ease, she pulled Oliver’s head above the surface.

“Jesus Christ,” Lance said.

“Get him. In boat.”

Lance, to his credit, had the wiry strength of beat or bicycle cop. With a little leverage, he was able to drag Oliver over the side and into the boat. Then he turned back for Felicity.

“Can you hold on to me?” he asked.

She nodded, her scalp still stinging.

“Good, because I think that son of a bitch threw my back out.”

She was able to help take some of her own weight as he pulled her over. Completely oblivious to her state (in her underwear, hair particularly insane, cold as hell), Felicity did her ABCs. Airway, clear. Breathing, no. Circulation, faint.

“First aid kit?” she croaked.

“Here.” Lance thrust the kit into her hands, then opened it himself when it was clear her hands were too numb.

“The mask,” she said, “put it--” Felicity had to stop, coughing.

“I got it.” Quentin positioned the rescue mask over Oliver’s still face and began to breathe. Felicity hovered nearby, sitting on her heels, with one hand over her own thumping heart.

“Don’t stop,” she said, when she could talk.

Lance favored her with a particular speaking look. Felicity tried, desperately, to get her own breath back, but she was still hacking like a two-pack-a-day smoker when Oliver began to breathe, too. It took Lance a little by surprise, but she reached over, grabbed Oliver, and pulled him quickly onto his side. Quentin moved quickly, helping maneuver Oliver into the recovery position while he gagged and vomited reservoir water.

“You’re okay,” she rasped, rubbing Oliver’s back. “It’s okay. You’re okay.” Felicity repeated it over and over, as the muscles under her hand spasmed again and again as he retched. She felt the boat start to move, the water sliding under the hull. 

“What now?” Quentin asked, when he’d tied the Zodiac up.

“My car’s unlocked,” she said hoarsely. “There’s oxygen and some Leatherman shears in the back.”

The oxygen helped. It still took some maneuvering, but they got Oliver sitting more or less upright, leaning forward against Felicity while Lance cut through the hauberk’s fastenings, and then the undershirt. 

“Jesus,” he said. “It looks like he caught two in the vest.” Fresh red contusions were blooming under the bare skin of Oliver’s torso.

“It’s the armor plates inside the leather,” Felicity said, from experience. “They must have helped.” She took a shallow, deliberate breath. “Now we get him to the car.”

“Aren’t you going to…” Lance made a vague gesture at her semi-nude state.

“In a minute.” Felicity turned back to Oliver, who was beginning to look alert. “If you don’t help us get you to the car, the Detective is going to make me put my clothes back on.”

He didn’t laugh, but he did help them by lurching to his feet. She grabbed the oxygen tank with one hand, putting the other around his midsection to help with balance. Felicity’s soles were bare and freezing in the painful gravel of the lot, but she felt vaguely guilty for even noticing. Lance had left the back of the SUV open, so they guided Oliver to sit on the bumper.

“Okay, good.” Felicity pushed a piece of hair out of her face. “I’m just going to do a quick exam here, before we go.”

Oliver reached up and put an icy hand on her shoulder.

“Cold,” he panted, under the mask.

“Right. Quentin? I think there’s a blanket somewhere back here. Oliver, hold still. I’m going to just shine this in your eyes.”

“You.” He tried to turn and grimaced, nails digging into the gray skin of his side.

“Listen, hey, don't move. Your ribs are probably cracked, so if you could keep try and keep your lungs in one piece, I’d really appreciate it.”

Lance reappeared with a casualty blanket. He draped it around Oliver’s shoulders somewhat awkwardly, then secured it in a more businesslike, almost fatherly manner.

“Her,” Oliver said.

“I know,” Quentin replied. “But I’ve never convinced a woman to put her clothes back on when she didn’t want to. I think she’s almost done.”

“I’ll be done when I’m done.” The truth was that his vitals were particularly good for someone who had just mostly drowned. There wasn’t much more she could do here. Everything else she needed involved imaging equipment and lab tests. Finally, she put everything back into her messenger bag and pulled out her keys.

“Oh no,” Quentin said. “Absolutely not.”

“What?”

“Listen, I know we have a colorful reputation as a city, but someone is going to notice a naked lady driving a car. Even in this town.”

“I’m not naked.”

“Look at you,” Lance said, clearly trying not to look. “You’re wet, you’re freezing, your feet are bleeding. Please. Do me this kindness. Let me drive.”

“Well.” Felicity lifted her chin. “That kind of depends on where you’re going to take us.”

Quentin looked defeated. “Wherever you want. Only for tonight.”

“In that case, take us to Palmer Tech.”

They laid the seats down flat and she found another blanket. Up front, Quentin cranked up the heat. In the back, Felicity and Oliver lay together in the world’s least sexy cuddle. The bed of the SUV was durable, hard plastic. The blankets were warming, in theory, but not exactly soft. And Oliver was still so cold that, to the touch, he felt a little like an uncooked turkey. They couldn’t even hug properly, because of his ribs.

But she put her bag under his head as a pillow and made sure the oxygen tank was secure for the ride, the cannula unkinked. Then she ducked down under the blankets to press a very gentle kiss to the hollow at the base of his throat. He took her hands in his and squeezed. She hoped she felt warm to him, and squeezed back.

The sound of the parking brake being pulled shook her out of a light doze. The entire welcoming committee was there at the freight entrance of the former QC building. Which was great for when Felicity, hair in total disarray, clothes nowhere in evidence, climbed out from other the blankets and gave everyone a thumbs up. Nyssa, at least, looked delighted.

“A little help?” Lance asked drily. “Quit gawking at the drowned rats. And for the love of all that is holy, someone make her put clothes on.”

It was, appropriately enough, Palmer who came to their rescue. He stepped between Oliver and Felicity, putting an arm around each and hustling them through the freight passages to the executive elevator and then his penthouse office with en suite bathroom. The whole transition was a blur to Felicity, who was beginning to suspect that her core temperature was dropping.

At the door of the bathroom, she shooed Palmer away and took most of Oliver’s weight herself. She closed the door and propped her erstwhile husband against the sink. The shower was beautiful, lined with marble with a huge rainfall style shower head. The whole thing was probably as big as the living space in the Nugget itself. She turned it on, careful to keep the water lukewarm. She threw down a huge pile of white, fluffy towels, and then helped Oliver out of his pants. She, of course, was already mostly naked. 

It really should have been sexy and fun but, like the ride there, it was more precarious than prurient. Felicity eased Oliver down, slowly, onto the pile of damp towels. Taking off her underthings was more of an afterthought. She had big plans for getting them both cleaned and comfortable, but instead ended up collapsing next to him in the falling water. Sighing, she rested the back of her head against what was probably Italian marble. The relative warmth of the water called up pain in the brand and stung the abrasions on the soles of her foot.

“Well.” Oliver held his bruised side and tried to sigh, with limited success. “This isn’t how I pictured it.”

“No,” she agreed. “You had that awesome suicidal plane plan.”

He smiled. “I meant more like the first time we got in a shower together.”

“This is a nice shower!” she protested, smiling back.

“This is Palmer’s shower,” he pointed out. “And I smell like lake mud. Is it supposed to hurt on the inside when I breathe?”

“Yeah. You’re not supposed to water them on the inside. Lungs don’t like that.”

“Now they tell me.”

“Oliver?”

“Felicity?”

“You did it.”

His smile crept out a little wider in his pale face. She leaned over and took his hand. He squeezed it again.

“Stop that.” She swatted his forearm. “I’m looking at your capillary refill.”

“So romantic.” Oliver smiled broadly now. He rested against the wall and the towels while she washed him with Palmer’s fancy body wash. Well, one of Palmer’s  fancy body washes. It was possible the man had some sort of mania. She picked a forest-y one for Oliver and a coconut-y one for herself, after she’d washed her hair. The feeling of soap and water on the back of her neck was merciless.

“Time to face the music,” she said.

 

* * *

 

The post-mortem occurred immediately following the shower. Felicity was handed another set of clothing that somehow fit her, and a mug of sugared coffee. Oliver got regular green tea with honey, which he frowned at. He didn’t know yet that she had a stash of dank herb waiting for him back in the Nugget. Everyone, in various states of battle dress, found a seat. John preferred to stand, arms crossed, leaning skeptically against the wall. 

Oliver was wearing Palmer’s clothes, sitting stiffly on his sofa while Felicity finished wrapping his torso. She handed him a throw pillow, which he held over the cracked ribs, with a faint sigh of relief.

“Cough,” she ordered.

He grimaced.

“Cough, or I’m withholding.”

Nyssa clasped her hands together eagerly. Laurel’s eyes flew wide open with surprised mirth.

“Codeine,” Felicity clarified. “I’m withholding codeine. Jesus. You people.”

“Don’t need the codeine,” Oliver said.

“Fine, then I’ll withhold the other thing.”

Oliver coughed six times, at her direction, and when he was done, his eyes were actually watering. Felicity counted out two Tylenol-3 for him instead. He swallowed them with his green tea.

“Now can we talk?” Lance asked drily.

“I reserve the right to suspend this interview at any time,” she said firmly. “But yes. We can talk.”

“You killed my father.” Nyssa wasted no time.

“I had to.”

“I wanted to be the one.”

And then Oliver Queen announced his retirement. Felicity’s heart beat faster and faster in her chest, until she thought she might be throwing PVCs. There was definitely a roaring in her ears when he finally said it.

“I told you that I couldn’t be the Arrow and be with you. I want to be with you.”

She didn’t speak, but she knew her mouth was stuck in a perfect O. Behind Oliver’s back, John was looking at her intently. Clearly there was something she was supposed to be doing? Or saying. John pointed a finger at her and gestured with emphasis.  _ Oh! My turn! _

“Do you want to go to Casper?” she asked, her voice a little squeaky. “With me, obviously. No one wants to go to Casper on their own. No offense, Casper. It’s my first locum assignment. I don’t even know what kind of trouble you can get into in Casper. Maybe cows trip and fall on you?”

“Yes,” Oliver said seriously, although he was grinning. “I want to go to Casper.”

 

* * *

 

Seventy-two hours later, they were secure for the night in a campground in Couer d’Alene, which was actually much prettier than she’d expected. The campground was on the edge of the National Forest, wild and full of fauna that she was terrified she might actually meet in person. They’d both showered (separately) in the facilities and brushed their teeth and now they were turning in. She helped Oliver prop himself up with pillows and he applied antibiotic cream to the back of her neck with a hand that was so light it was almost intangible. 

“You look very serious,” he noted. 

“Tonight’s the night,” she said gravely.

“I thought last night was the night. I thought it went pretty well?”

“Not for that.” She dismissed the thought with a flap of her hand. “For something much more personal.”

Oliver raised one eyebrow. “More personal than me turning you over on your--”

“Yes! No. Different personal.”

“Okay.” The expression on his face didn’t know whether it was amused or alarmed.

“You know how when you came back from the island, you had your little book?”

“I do remember that.”

“When my dad walked out, I had her. Even if I was a little young for the target audience.”

With that, Felicity Smoak picked up her remote, turned it to their little flat screen, and hit play.

“A long time ago, we used to be friends, but I haven’t thought of you lately at all…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew.


End file.
